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9 









IDOLS; 

OR, THE 

Secret of the Rue Chaossee d’Antin. 


fww tto Jrifttcli; of 

RAOUL DE NAVERY, 

iSla/rielU.^ ~ IVWv»-«. ■ VVl«i/vcX- ) 

6 

ANNA T 

Author of *' Names that Live in Catholic Hearts f 


rSADLIER, 


C?<i 




Of 


New York, Cincinnati, and St. Louts: 
BE3S^ZZGI-EI^ BZ^OTZ3:z:lZ^S^ 

r Printers to the Holy Apostolic See, 



Copyright, 1882, by Benziger Brothers. 


(■ 




CONTENTS 


CHAPTBR page 

I. The PoMEREUL Household : 5 

II. A Prodigal Son 18 

III. The Knights of the Black Cap 34 

IV. The Crime ." 47 

V. The Secret of God 60 

VI. The Accusation 73 

VII. Heart Trials 90 

VHI. The Inviolable Secret 105 

IX. A New Misfortune 120 

X. The Trial 137 

XI. The Dream Ended 154 

XH. An Artist Supper 169 

XHI. The Golden Calf 187 

XIV. The War 206 

XV. The Two Brothers 229 

XVI. Jean Machu 248 

XVII. The Barricades of Death 265 

XVHI. Lipp-Lapp 280 

XIX. The Dwarf’s Secret 299 

XX. The Broken Idol 3^5 



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4 


IDOLS; 

OR, 

The Secret of the Rue ChausOe d’Antin. 


CHAPTER I. 

The Pomereul Household. 

Two men, who in age and appearance were widely 
different, sat conversing in a spacious study. The room 
was luxurious, though somewhat severe in its arrange-'* 
ment. It contained many fine representations in bronze 
of masterpieces of antique art. Antoine Pomereul, the 
elder of the two men, seemed upwards of sixty years of 
age. His hair, which looked as if a gale of wind might 
have passed through it, fell over his massive temples. 
His florid complexion, the smile on his lips and the frank 
expression of the face betokened a straightforward and 
generous disposition, and much business ability. His 
grey eye was wonderfully penetrating; the very position 
of his hand upon the desk marked the energetic man of 
business. 

His companion, on the contrary, was scarcely twenty- 
five. His broad forehead bore the impress of genius 
upon it, and genius of a solid and somewhat serious 
character; his expression was earnest, with a tinge of 
mingled asceticism and ideality. His figure was lithe and 
graceful, his hair black, his complexion pale, his whole 
appearance most attractive. A voice true in tone and 


6 


IDOLS. 


musical in quality completed the charm, and added no 
little to the confidence which his countenance inspired. 
Nor did it belie a nature at once ardent and sensitive. 

“So, Benedict,” said Antoine Pomereul, “you refuse 
to draw aside the envious veil which covers your statue. 
Your apprentice, Cleomene, has just brought it here, and 
I am longing to see it. But I assure you I respected its 
folds, as if they were those of the ancient Isis.” 

“ O my dear master,” said Benedict, seizing the old 
man’s hand impulsively, “ if I have kept it veiled, it is 
because I would fain see for myself the impression it 
produced upon you, and hear with my own lips the de- 
cree which will make me happy or miserable. I want to 
consult your heart and mind alike in the two-fold deci- 
sion you are about to give.” 

“ On my honor,” laughed Antoine Pomereul, “ the 
affair is more serious than I supposed.” 

“It concerns my whole life,” cried the young man 
eagerly. 

“ You mean your future as an artist, I suppose,” said 
Pomereul, “ and as to that, my boy, many find them- 
selves deceived who follow art. Yes, those who seek her 
most often go farthest astray. Unwilling to follow the 
beaten path, they take new and unknown ones; some- 
times they lose the guiding thread; their mind gropes in 
darkness; they fail to realize the grandeur of their first 
conception. However, Benedict, it is better even to miss 
a lofty ideal, than to remain forever satisfied with what 
is mediocre and trivial.” 

“Judge for yourself,” cried the artist, suddenly raising 
the veil which covered the statue. 

It was about three feet in height, of the purest Car- 
rara marble. It represented a young girl modestly clad 
in a flowing robe, such as is seen on fauns of the twelfth 
and thirteenth centuries. The eyes were raised to Hea- 


THE POMEREUL HOUSEHOLD. 


7 


ven, in her hand she held a chisel and hammer; she 
seemed the very personification of the s-culpture of that 
period, a celestial daughter of prayer, offering her sub- 
limest work to the God who inspired it. The old man 
regarded the statue for some moments in silence, after 
which he grasped the young sculptor’s hand with an air 
of conviction, saying, 

“ Good, my boy, good.” 

‘‘ Ah,” said Benedict, “ how happy you make me.” 

“ This figure represents — ” 

^‘The daughter of Steinbach,” answered Benedict, 

architect of the Cathedral of Strasburg. She assisted 
her father in that mighty work, and the pillar des Anges, 
of the Angels, bear her name, Sabine.” 

“ Ah, Steinbach’s daughter was named Sabine, like 
mine,” said Pomereul, smiling. “Well, you are satisfied 
now, I suppose. Your statue is charming. The style and 
conception of it are good. You have kept your ideal, 
and the skill of your chisel has not interfered with the 
purity of your inspiration. Bravo! yes, I say honestly 
and in all sincerity, bravo! Keep up your heart. If the 
figure is small, the execution is great.” 

“Master,” said Benedict, “your praise confuses me.” 

“ It need not,” said Pomereul. “ I am stating facts. I 
trust you do not suspect me of flattering. You re- 
member when, as a mere child, you worked with my 
sculptors, how exacting I was. Exacting enough to dis- 
courage any one but you. Perhaps you thought me severe 
or even hard. I feared so myself, yet I continued in the 
same way. It is by the patience of the pupil that the 
reality of his vocation is determined. Those cowards 
-who are overcome by the difficulties of the task, and the 
severity of the master, are not worth a regret. It is 
doing them a service to keep them tradesmen, rather 
than raise them to the dignity of artists. You blushed, 


8 


IDOLS. 


indeed, at my reproofs, but less with anger than with 
grief at your own mistakes; indefatigable you began 
again; every day you made new progress, and were not 
vain of it; you looked rather at what you had yet to 
learn than at the facility already acquired. At last I 
was forced to turn you out of the workshop, for you were 
too modest to see that sculpture was calling you to her 
service, and that with me you were making merely 
models for industry.” 

“Yes,” said Benedict, “you are right; it was neces- 
sary indeed to drive me from your house, as I would 
never have left it. You were anxious for my welfare; 
I was more anxious to keep my happiness. You aspired 
for me to artistic heights; I would have sacrificed every- 
thing at that time to continue making your pendulums 
and candelabras. You were right, but my heart sought to 
persuade me that you were wrong. I begin to be known, 
I may become famous; but who will assure me that I 
have as of old — ” 

“ The friendship of your old master? But you are 
still part of the family, Benedict. I love you almost as 
much as Sulpice more perhaps than Xavier.” 

“ Really?” 

“ Really.” 

“ Then, if I should ask you a favor?” 

“ I am almost sure I would grant it.” 

“ Even if it were something of importance?” 

“ Even is not the word, say especially.” 

“Well,” said Benedict, plucking up courage, “ will you 
allow me to offer this statue to Mile. Sabine? To-mor- 
row is her birthday, and — ” 

“You dear, big boy,” said Pomereul, “you were afraid 
to finish the sentence. Yet you have lived ten years in 
my house. My severity towards you was only a proof 
of my attachment. When the big tears rolled down your 


THE POMEREUL HOUSEHOLD. 


9 


cheeks on the day of your departure, it was because you 
left behind you a happy past, and your youthful dreams 
and ambition. But I wished you to have such a trial. 
It was needed to temper your soul. Sheltered by my care 
and forethought, you knew nothing of the dangers of the 
world. You thought that each one lived there in the 
dignity of his own purity, and the strength of his own 
convictions, without either struggle or effort. I wanted 
you to pass through that fiery furnace, and come forth 
tempered for the battle of life. The boy bade me fare- 
well with swelling heart and tearful eyes; I hoped that 
the man would return to me. He is come. You have 
made no false steps upon your way. Your gaze has re- 
mained fixed upon one star, your heart was true to one 
attachment. It was well done; it is rare and beautiful. 
Artists of your age often drag their inspiring muse in 
the mud. But you begged her to raise you upon her 
wings, and she has kept you there. You have often 
called me your benefactor, to-day you called me master, 
there is but one more title you can give me.” 

^‘One title,” cried Benedict, “then you understand, 
you do not despise my — ” 

“Your father gives you his hand,” said Pomereul. 
Benedict grasped it, with large tears standing in his 
eyes, and thus the two men stood face to face for some 
moments, emotion keeping them silent. It was with 
regret they both heard Baptiste’s voice at the door, 
asking, 

“Can you receive M. Andre Nicois, sir?” 

“ Of course,” said M. Pomereul advancing towards the 
door. 

“ Then, my statue — ” said Benedict. 

“Is Sabine’s property now,” said Pomereul, “and by 
the way, we must let her have this surprise as soon as 
possible.” I 


10 


IDOLS. 


As he spoke M. Pomereul turned to the darkest coiner 
of the room, calling, 

“ Lipp-Lapp!'' 

Hearing its name, a strange creature came out of the 
shadow where it had been hidden. It stood upright 
and firmly on its feet, letting its arms hang down beside 
its lean body, and came towards its master. 

It was a chimpanzee of the larger species, with intel- 
ligent face, mild dark eyes, and a broad wide-open 
mouth, which seemed about to speak. Lipp-Lapp’s eyes 
gleamed with intelligence. He wore a robe of brocade, 
ornamented with pearls and gold, such as is seen in pic- 
tures of blacks by Italian masters. He had a bright 
colored turban on his head, and seemed very proud of 
his fine clothes. He had been brought from Java to 
M. Pomereul by a friend, and had soon learned, as 
many of his race have done, to perform various little 
domestic services. He could carry a tray of fruit, 
liqueur, or coffee with perfect safety, distribute the 
letters, and could besides understand almost any order 
given to him. 

“Lipp-Lapp,” said M. Pomereul, “take this statue and 
put it on Mile. Sabine’s mantelpiece.” 

The chimpanzee showed all his teeth in a broad grin; 
he seized the figure in his strong and dextrous arms, 
and went off in the direction of Mile. Pomereul’s apart- 
ments. 

“My daughter is out,” said Pomereul; “on her return 
she will find the statue, and can thank you this evening. 
You must dine with us, my boy.” 

Benedict only wrung M. Pomereul’s hand, exchanged 
salutes with M. Nicois, who was coming in, and left the 
house radiant with joy. 

M. Pomereul perceived at once that the countenance 
of his visitor was anxious and troubled. Unlike many 


THE POMEREUL HOUSEHOLD. 


II 


people, who seeing their friends in distress, begin an ac- 
count of their own difficulties, for fear of being called on 
for assistance, M. Pomereul took a chair opposite Nicois, 
and said to him bluntly, 

“ What has gone wrong with you ?” 

“ Everything has gone wrong,” said Nicois. “ I came 
on purpose to tell you, and now — ” 

“You hesitate,” said Pomereul; “but I say, what is 
the use of having friends if you cannot ask a favor of 
them? It was just the same with that fine, clever boy 
who has gone out. He came to open his heart to me, 
and I was obliged to offer him Sabine in marriage. You 
need money.” 

“Who told you so?” cried Nicois excitedly. 

“ No one,” answered his friend. 

“Can you assure me of this,” said Nicois, “ there are 
no rumors at the Bourse ?” ^ 

“ On the contrary,” said Pomereul, “ the talk there 
yesterday was how solid you were. If you are in diffi- 
culties, no hint of it has got about. But I simply judge 
from this. Nothing else but financial embarrassment 
could make you look so down in the mouth, and what 
else could have brought you here just before the end of 
the month, if it were not to say. Friend Pomereul, open 
your money-chest wide. I want to put in both hands.” 

“You are right,” said Nicois, “you are as clear-sighted 
as generous. I need money, a large sum.” 

“How much ?” 

“A hundred thousand francs,” said the banker with 
much embarrassment. 

“I have not that much in the house,” said Pomereul 
quietly, “ but I can get it for you. Come here the day 
after to-morrow, and it will be ready.” 


* Exchange. 


12 


IDOLS. 


“You will save my life,” said Nicois. 

“ Ah, it is too much to put life in the scale with money,” 
said Pomereul. “ I simply do you a service, which in like 
circumstances I should ask of you. If friendship does 
not go as far as the purse, and a little beyond, there is 
not much use in making a parade of it.” 

“Pomereul,” said Nicois, “you know what true friend- 
ship is, though you do not make a parade of it. But 
who could be more noble, more unselfish than you are, to 
your very workmen, to all who surround you?” 

“Stop there,” said Pomereul; “I object. What you 
call unselfishness, generosity, liberality, and so on, is only 
a knowledge of business. If I have laid a foundation of 
benevolence to others, it is only making a profitable in- 
vestment. I am rich, and it gives me the very great 
happiness of being loved by those around me, respected 
without being feared, and the possessor of four millions, 
without having any enemies or being envied. Looking 
back upon my life, it seems that in all its circumstances I 
was blessed by Providence. There is one cloud upon the 
blue horizon, but that I trust will in time disappear. My 
father was a blacksmith, pursuing his humble trade, and 
gaining a scanty sustenance. I resolved to aid him by my 
earnings. As a mere boy I got a situation in a bronze 
factory. I was employed only to run errands, and to 
sweep the store. But I never loitered upon the way, nor 
left a speck of dust where my broom had been. So I 
won my employer’s confidence. He made me an ap- 
prentice. I astonished the workmen by my facility in 
learning. My master began to take a special interest in 
me. He had me taught the intricacies of the trade, 
instead of leaving me to spend my life toiling at its 
lower branches. I attempted first the casting, then the 
setting or the carving of large pieces. At twenty, few 
workmen could equal me. If my education was not 


THE POMEREUL HOUSEHOLD. 


13 


classical, it was at least sound and practical. From that 
time my lot was cast. The proprietor had a daughter. 
He gave her to me in marriage. The firm name became 
‘Bernard et Pomereul.’ It continued so for three 
years. Then Bernard died, and my name alone was on 
books or invoices. I succeeded him. I had three chil- 
dren, and our happiness was, indeed, enviable, when the 
greatest grief of my life came upon me. My wife died. 
I thought at first I should never be consoled for her 
loss, but though I have never forgotten her, time has 
softened my sorrow. My children remain to me — Sul- 
pice, whose intellect is far in advance of his age, 
Xavier, whose good heart redeems his folly, and Sabine, 
the angel of our house.” 

“Ah, yes,” said Nicois, “you are a happy father.” 

Pomereul sighed, and resumed. 

“ What was done for me, the poor child of Paris, with- 
out any other recommendation than his own desire to 
do right, I have always tried to do for others. I have 
striven to be rather the father than the master of my 
workmen. If I do all that is necessary in paying them 
their salary, I love to do more for my own satisfaction. 
You must see some time how I have organized their 
dwellings at Charenton, near the factory. Each family 
has its own house, which is simple and comfortable. 
There is water to purify and take away the bad proper- 
ties of the gas, which gives it warmth and light; a little 
plot of ground to supply it with vegetables and to grow 
flowers; the children can likewise raise rabbits there, and 
the good wife, chickens. I have, besides, a hospital for 
the sick, a crib for nursing infants, a workroom for girls, 
an infant school for the little ones. My factory really in- 
cludes a complete city, of which I am chief magistrate.” 

“And of which your son Sulpice is the apostle,” said 
Nicois. 


14 


IDOLS. 


“ Yes,” replied Pomereul, in a voice of considerable 
emotion, “you may well say Sulpice is an apostle. What 
I do through philanthropy, he does from pure charity. 

I bring to one corner of the earth comforts, improve- 
ments, worldly goods, but he brings Heaven there. He 
teaches catechism to the children, guides the family, is 
the adviser of the father, and is beloved and respected 
by every one. He has made my workmen doubly honest 
and faithful in the discharge of their duties. There is 
perfect harmony between their principles and conduct. 
Seeing the son of their master, the millionaire, Sulpice 
Pomereul, working among them in his poor cassock 
and coarse shoes, they cannot doubt the divine char- 
acter of a religion which inspires such sacrifices. Sul- 
pice translates the Bible into action, and he might say, 
with the noble pride of an apostle. Be ye also my imi- 
tators, as I am the imitator of Christ Jesus. Truly I 
love Sulpice as a living part of my own heart. But at 
times the veneration I feel for his virtues is even greater 
than my affection. There could not be a finer spectacle 
than that of a young man endowed with every gift of 
mind and fortune, renouncing the privileges of the 
upper few to devote his life to the education of poor chil- 
dren, the consolation of the wretched, and the relief of 
human misery. Therefore Sulpice is beloved and vener- 
ated by all who know him. They knock much oftener at 
the door of the humble room which he keeps for himself 
in the attic, than at that of the rich merchant, member of 
the Municipal Council, and Judge in the Tribunal de 
Commerce. Every one in the house feels the influence of 
his gentleness and piety. I do not speak of Sabine, she is an 
angel, but customers, friends, servants, all, except Xavier.” 

“ You exaggerate these youthful follies of Xavier,” said 
Nicois; “why the deuce take it, Pomereul, a boy must 
sow his wild oats.” 


THE POMEREUL HOUSEHOLD. 


5 


“ What they sow they must reap,” said Pomereul. 

“Ah, well, he will come out right,” said Nicois; “ per- 
haps he needed a fjciend and adviser of his own age in 
whom he could confide. Sulpice is rather too austere 
for your youngest son, and Sabine’s very innocence pre- 
vents her being of service to him.” 

“ And what of me ?” asked Pomereul. 

“ You, why confound it, man, you are his father. Be- 
sides you are of that disposition which difficulties to be 
overcome in early life naturally make a man, and whose 
character forbids Xavier to confide in him. Things will 
improve when Benedict Fougerais is your son-in-law, for 
you said, did you not, that you meant to give him Sabine?” 

“ Gladly, my friend,” said Pomereul. “ Benedict is 
one of those young men who left my workshop to be- 
come masters in their turn. For I have the deep satis- 
faction of knowing that my house has produced men 
who will be an honor to their country. One reason why 
I love my calling is that it enables me to aid deserving 
talent. Once a boy gains the special interest of his pro- 
fessor in drawing or modelling I keep my eye on him. I 
inquire as to the condition of his family. If they are 
poor I give the boy a pension, stipulating that he will 
pay me back, by yearly sums, till he has paid all I have 
advanced. This, in turn, is used to open a future to 
some other boy. It has another advantage, for it teaches 
them the proper value of money; that they must regard 
it, not as an idol, but as a power; that it must be used 
less for our pleasures than our necessities ; that its 
worth may be increased a hundred-fold by the use made 
of it. Many artists owe their future to this plan of 
mine: Luc Aubry, the landscape painter, Jean Leroux, 
who painted the interior, which you bought last year, 
Benedict Fougerais,*^ who is likely to take a front rank 
among our sculptors if he does not degenerate.” 


i6 


IDOLS. 


“ Degenerate, when he is Sabine’s husband ?” 

“ I do not mean degeneracy of hand or of intellect.” 

‘‘ What then ?” 

“A moral degeneracy.” 

“ That will be impossible when he is surrounded by 
such an atmosphere as this.” 

“ I hope so, but who can tell ? You know how fatally 
easy and insidious is the descent of an artist. Benedict 
only knows the great art, pure, religious, Christian, the 
art which is the softened shade of religious feeling. He 
is of the school of Fra Bartolomeo and Fra Angelico, who 
painted their Madonnas on their knees. But the current 
of fashion and of popular taste does not run upon 
that side. Art has become pagan. It has descended 
from the sacred heights. The Muse has become a Bac- 
chante and dances with satyrs; a modest statue or a 
decent picture loses half its chance of success. The 
churches are no longer endowed with works of a re- 
ligious inspiration, but rather the drawing-rooms are 
decorated with profane or indecent figures. Therefore, 
woe to the artist, however gifted, who sacrifices his 
power of inspiration to every passing whim, who says 
to himself, not, I am going to create something great, 
but, I am going to make a group which will sell. First, 
he tries to succeed, then to succeed again, then to be 
talked of in the papers. So far Benedict has escaped 
these perils. God grant he may continue so.” 

“Rest easy,” said Nicois; “not only will he do that, 
but he will bring back your prodigal son.” 

“You believe so?” said Pomereul. 

“ Most sincerely; we were all foolish at his age, except 
you perhaps.” 

“ And you too, I hope,” said Pomereul, looking fixedly 
at his friend. 

A dark shade passed over the banker’s face. 


THE POMEREUL HOUSEHOLD. 17 

“ My friend,” said he, in a troubled voice, “ I paid to 
folly one tribute, which though brief cost me dear. My 
hair has been always white since you knew me, has it 
not ?” 

“ It is true.” 

“ It grew white in a single night.” 

“ In consequence of some terrible misfortune ?” 

“Yes, you name it right, a terrible misfortune,” said 
Nicois. 

Seeing his friend’s astonishment at this unexpected 
confidence he continued: 

“ It is since that, I have had such a passion for money. 
Till then I only thought of it as a means of obtaining an 
independent position; now, I want it to gratify my pride, 
my wife’s follies, to excite the envy of others, and plunge 
myself into such a whirlpool of business and of pleasure 
that I forget, or at least for an hour lose that one recol- 
lection,” 

“ Will you not confide to me the cause of your suffer- 
ing ?” 

“Ah,” said Nicois, “if you knew all. But some day 
the friend will come to your fireside and open his heart 
to you. To-day, the banker alone has told you his mis- 
fortune.” 

Pomereul took his friend’s outstretched hand. Nicois 
rose to go. 

“ You say that the money will be ready for me the day 
after to-morrow?” 

“ The day after to-morrow,” said Pomereul, “ a hun- 
dred thousand francs will be in this portfolio for you.” 

As Nicois passed out, Lipp-Lapp brought him his 
overcoat and cane. 


I8 


IDOLS. 


CHAPTER II. 

A Prodigal Son* 

In the Pomereul household everything, even to the 
smallest details, was as orderly as possible. The mer- 
chant himself fully appreciating the value of time never 
permitted it to be wasted in idleness. Many people by 
delaying lose a few minutes now and a few minutes 
again, which at the end of the week amounts to several 
hours. The clocks always went to perfection, and the 
manufacturer of bronze daily found that rare phenomenon 
so eagerly sought by Charles V., all the clocks struck at 
the same moment. At six precisely the family sat down 
to dinner. Pomereul never waited for anybody. He 
considered want of punctuality a breach of good man- 
ners, towards which people are usually too indulgent. 
When Xavier dined out he generally let his father know. 
But on this particular occasion, when the butler an- 
nounced dinner, Pomereul, Sulpice, Sabine and Benedict 
were in the drawing-room, but no Xavier. 

Sabine’s face was bright and joyful. She sat at a 
window talking to her betrothed, and a ray of the setting 
s\in falling on her golden hair formed of it an aureola. 
Her only ornament was a white rose, which she had 
added to her simple toilet from the bouquet Benedict 
had brought her. 

Pomereul and Sulpice were conversing in a low voice 
of Sabine’s betrothal, and the young priest seemed very 
much pleased about it. 

“ It is one of those unions,” said he to his father, 
“which are too seldom seen nowadays. On the one 
hand is Sabine with all the virtues which form the high- 
est charm and special strength of a woman; on the 


A PRODIGAL SON. 


19 


Other, Benedict, with his energy, love of work and law- 
ful ambition. You know Benedict's talents, his moral 
character, his strong religious principles, and you do well 
to place my sister’s hand in his. They both know full 
well, despite the illusions of their age, that the future 
will have many trials for them, but they know also that 
they can overcome these trials. The blessing of heaven 
must surely rest on such a marriage, and I shall gladly 
perform the ceremony which unites them.” 

“You remind me,” said M. Pomereul smiling, “that 
Benedict and I have not yet spoken of Sabine’s dowry.” 

“Your lawyer will attend to that,” said Sulpice. 

“No,” said M. Pomereul, “when you want a thing 
well done do it yourself.” 

As he spoke he turned to the young people. 

“Come here a moment, Benedict,” said he. 

The young man came. 

“ My good son-in-law,” said Pomereul, “ you acted 
somewhat thoughtlessly yesterday about a certain mat- 
ter. I must say it did not give me a very high opinion 
of your business ability. How can you possibly sign 
contracts for your work, or make agreements if you 
know so little of the value of money, that you did not 
ask me what dowry I would give Sabine ?” 

“ A dowry to Sabine ?” cried Benedict. “ I do not want 
any.” 

“You do not want any?” said Pomereul. 

“ Most assuredly not,” said Benedict. “ Is it not enough 
that I am to become the husband of such a girl as that 
without receiving a large sum of money ? Do you think 
that while you live I would ever take a penny of your 
fortune from you ? By doing so I would offend Sabine 
and degrade myself. I am only twenty-five. I am will- 
ing to work and I may add I have talents. I can easily 
supply our little wants. . No, dear father. I refuse to 


20 


IDOLS. 


accept her dowry, and I am sure Sabine thinks as I 
do.” 

“Yes,” said Sabine, in a voice full of emotion, “you 
are right, perfectly right.” 

Pomereul shook his head incredulously. 

“ Believe me,” said Benedict earnestly, “ it is better 
that young people should not have too much money at 
first. Sometimes their future is marred rather than 
made by premature good fortune. Money is rather an 
incentive to idleness than to work. The rich are more 
apt to gather round them a crowd of parasites and flat- 
terers. For an artist, wealth is a positive misfortune. 
It induces him to waste his time, and the very praise be- 
stowed on him is often given less to the artist, than to 
the rich man, so that it blinds him to the real value of 
his work.” 

“You are right,” said Sulpice, pressing Benedict’s 
hand. 

“ It seems to me, too,” said Sabine, blushing, “ that it 
robs the wife of half her merit; it condemns her to idle- 
ness, by making her rich all at once. A wealthy bride 
seems to owe everything to her family, and nothing to 
her husband. What will it matter, dear father, if the 
daughter of the millionaire Pomereul be without horses 
or diamonds ? I can use your carriage at need, and 
Benedict shall see that I know how to dispense with 
these things cheerfully. My surroundings will be hum- 
ble; so much the better. I shall go out of my world in 
marrying an artist, and yet I will remain myself. I do 
not need large means, which would render work useless, 
lead me to love the world, and to rival other women in 
dress and extravagance. We will live upon my hus- 
band’s earnings as my mother was content to live upon 
yours.” 

Pomereul opened his arms to Sabine^ 


A PRODIGAL SON. 


21 


“Dear daughter,” he said, “and dear son, more 
touched than I can express, I yield to your youthful 
wisdom. You are now voluntarily poor. But you 
will permit me once and a while to give you a little 
surprise.” 

“ We will permit whatever will be a pleasure to you,” 
said Benedict. 

“Very well,” said Pomereul gayly, recovering from 
his emotion, “ we shall serve up surprises, like truffles, 
under a napkin.” 

At that moment Lipp-Lapp threw open the doors, 
and drew aside the curtains, while the voice of Baptiste 
announced, 

“ Dinner.” 

The great clock struck six. 

The same thought occurred to Sabine and Sulpice. 
Xavier was not there. 

Benedict, who read what was passing in Sabine’s 
mind, said to M. Pomereul, in a half entreating way, 

“ Shall we not wait for Xavier?” 

“No, my boy,” said M. Pomereul firmly, “it is his 
duty to be punctual, he has not done his duty.” 

“ He forgot that this night was not like every other.” 

“ He knows that he owes me respect and deference,” 
said Pomereul, “ that should sufflce. Give Sabine your 
arm, Benedict; we must not let the dinner cool.” 

They went into the dining-room. It was a large 
square room, made octagon in shape by great side- 
boards, laden with massive silver. The bright light of 
the lamps shone on choice pictures; the table linen was 
snowy white; vases of flowers ornamented the table; 
comfort and taste reigned supreme at this board, where 
the finest crystal rivalled the. choicest of porcelain. 

Taking up her napkin, Sabine uttered a cry of delight; 
a magnificent bracelet of diamonds lay beneath it. 


22 


IDOLS. 


“Ah, father,” said the young girl reproachfully, “al- 
ready!” 

“ It belonged to your mother,” said M. Pomereul 
quietly. 

Sulpice was at his father’s right hand, Sabine to the 
left, while Benedict sat facing his future father-in-law. 

An empty chair awaited Xavier. 

The commencement of the meal was cheerful, spite of 
the young man’s absence. M. Pomereul himself gave 
the tone to it, and besides an incident at once touching 
and comic added to its gayety. 

Lipp-Lapp was a great pet of Xavier’s, and the 
honest chimpanzee always took great delight in serving 
him at table. Not seeing him in his accustomed place, 
he showed the utmost vexation. His eyes were anx- 
iously fixed upon the door. Seeing, however, that dinner 
was going on without Xavier, he was determined to 
perform his office, notwithstanding. He placed a share 
of all the viands before the empty chair, and changed 
the plates with as much care as if his young master had 
really partaken of all these good things. As time 
passed, however, Lipp-Lapp became sadder and sadder, 
and at the dessert his face was the picture of misery. 
All at once, when the coffee was being served, the chim- 
panzee gave a little cry of joy, and rushed towards the 
door, opening from the dining-room to the antechamber. 

He heard his young master’s step. 

But Xavier did not appear. 

Lipp-Lapp’s instinct had not deceived him. Xavier 
had just passed up stairs. Instead pf entering the 
dining-room, he had gone at once to his own apartment. 

The little party, meanwhile, returned to the drawing- 
room. Sabine, who could read her father’s thoughts, 
saw that he was deeply grieved. She went to the piano, 
hoping by music to chase away his gloomy thoughts. 


A PRODIGAL SON. 


23 


Benedict turned the pages, not so much because she re- 
quired this service, for Sabine played well without music, 
but simply to be near her, and leave Sulpice and his 
father to converse the more freely. They sat, in fact, at 
the other end of the apartment. 

‘‘ Father,” said Sulpice, “you seem to take Xavier’s 
want of punctuality very much to heart.” 

“Yes,” said M. Pomereul, “ in the first place because it 
is a want of respect. In the second, because it is one 
step further in the course he has pursued for five years. 
I will not deny that your brother is a constant source of 
grief to me.” 

“He will do better, father,” said Sulpice, “he is so 
young.” 

“So young,” said Pomereul, “and can you too offer 
such an excuse for him ? Why, his very youth condemns 
him. At twenty-three he neglects every duty; he has no 
other pleasures, but foolish extravagance and excess, he 
lives his whole life in idle or vicious society. He de- 
spises his home, and prefers his club or the green-room 
of theatres. Why do you defend him, Sulpice, when 
you should be the first to blame ?” 

“I do blame him,” said Sulpice, “but I would not 
that his faults should bring down on him merited but 
perhaps excessive severity. Besides he is my brother, 

I might almost say my son. I first taught him the 
truths of faith. I too suffer and am unhappy on his 
account, but I know that the lost sheep are often found, 
and I trust that the prodigal son will return to the fire- 
side of home.” 

“What have I left undone for that ungrateful boy?” 
said Pomereul, scarcely heeding Sulpice’s consoling 
words. “ I readily gratified his every wish. His apart- 
ments are more luxurious, his equipages more sumptuous 
than mine. He is fond of horses, and I gave him a stable 


24 


IDOLS. 


fit for a prince. I thought each sacrifice I made for him 
would attach him more and more to me. And now, to 
my bitter sorrow, I perceive that if he is dutiful and 
affectionate for a few days, it is only that he may profit 
by my joy to get some thousands of francs from me. 
At first I gave him a fixed allowance, and he owed every 
one. At the end of the year, they all drew upon me. I 
scolded him, but I paid his debts. It has been the same 
every time. I am tired now of being banker to an idle 
boy, whose sole occupation is to discuss the pattern of a 
waistcoat or the tying of a cravat, who brings into my 
house the language of a horse-jockey and the manners 
of the Cafe Anglais.” 

“Father,” said Sulpice, with great tenderness, “I do 
not deny that you have cause for grief; the facts suffice, 
and like you I see that Xavier is upon the downward 
path which leads to ruin. Now, do not suppose for a 
moment that I wish to cast any blame upon you. If 
your affection exceeded your prudence, far be it from me 
to criticise your actions. But, perhaps, you were too 
generous. 

“Most assuredly I was,” said M. Pomereul; “of 
course you are right. When he, a boy of eighteen, 
finished his studies, I should have said to him, ‘Take 
your turn at the hammer and chisel, learn each branch 
of the trade, as I did. You are to succeed me. I do not 
want the firm of Pomereul to change its name.’ I yield- 
ed partly through affection, partly through vanity, to 
Xavier’s desires. I often smiled at sight of the hand- 
some, witty boy, extravagant, perhaps, and inclined to 
swagger a little. Ah! what a mistake. Scarce had he 
set foot in the clubs, than the clubs took him from me. 
He became a spendthrift, an idler, a coxcomb, a trinity 
of names which form the same person, an idle and 
prodigal being, the offshoot of an effete society. I saw 


A PRODIGAL SON. 


25 


the danger, and would have averted it. It was too late. 
Xavier had lost among his Soon companions that re- 
spect for me, that deference and affection, which are only 
cultivated at the home hearth. My remonstrances only 
estranged him; he answered me sharply, and left me 
irritated and resentful. I loved him, and too often called 
him back to comply with his request. This has con- 
tinued for five years. I repeat that I am tired of humor- 
ing this elegant idler. I feel that I am not justified in 
paying the expenses of an ungrateful boy, who takes me 
to be his dupe. Henceforth, the bank is closed.” 

“ Let it be so,” said Sulpice, “ but the father must open 
his arms.” 

“ To the repentant son, most certainly,” said M. 
Pomereul. “ But you cannot know, Sulpice, what I 
suffer from his conduct to-day when I compare him 
with Benedict. My true son is that orphan boy, who 
calls me father, and who finds genius and industry 
sufficient capital, without seeking to add money there- 
unto. Xavier’s absence to-night was the drop which 
made my cup of bitterness overflow. To-morrow Xavier 
must go to work, and take direction of the factory under 
my superintendence.” 

“Good,” said Sulpice; “I approve of your resolution 
to cut the evil short. A time may come when it will be 
no longer possible. Only, I beg of you, be gentle with 
him. His heart is not bad. His friends are all attached 
to him. Sabine loves him with all the fervor of her 
innocent heart, and I too, father, love Xavier with the 
love that mothers give to afflicted children. If I deplore 
his faults, I hope to see him conquer them and efface 
their traces. Vice fills me with horror, but vicious men 
sadden me. Like Christ I have come into the ministry, 
not to bring the just but sinners to repentance. We 
must not deceive ourselves. Xavier is the Benjamin of 


26 


IDOLS. 


the family, and if he has been hitherto unworthy of a 
partiality in which we all had our share, I am sure 
that sooner or later he will deserve it.” 

‘‘ God grant it,” said Pomereul. 

“ Promise me, dear father, to speak mildly to him,” said 
Sulpice. 

“Mildly,” said Pomereul, “but firmly.” 

“All will be well then, believe me,” said the priest; 

“ and now, to celebrate this betrothal day with something 
a little less dismal, listen to Sabine’s music which is 
almost as fine as Benedict’s sculpture.” 

The young girl had just left the piano, but she took her 
seat at the organ, and played one of those marvellous 
sacred melodies, the O Jesu^ of Haydn. This sublime 
prayer of supplication, in which the man’s cry of 
agony is followed by the child’s caressing entreaty, was 
interpreted by Sabine with rare depth and tenderness. 
Few could perform this piece as she did, and Benedict 
closing his eyes, beheld above him the groined arches of 
a chapel, heard a mighty organ taking on its winged 
notes the prayers of the kneeling multitude. When he 
opened them, he caught such a look of inspiration upon 
Sabine’s face that he cried out to her in a subdued 
voice, 

“Stay like that for one minute more. Next year I 
will send a Saint Cecilia to the Salon.” 

When the last notes of the music had died away, Ben- 
edict rose to take his leave. He shook hands with M. 
Pomereul and Sulpice, took a flower which Sabine 
offered him, and left the house, and the family, whom 
he thenceforth considered as his own. 

“Till to-morrow,” Pomereul had said to him; “hence- 
forth your place will be set at the table every day.” 

When the young artist had gone, Sabine said good 
night to her father. 


A PRODIGAL SON. 


27 


“ I hope you are not going to work late,” she said. 

Only to write a letter, dear child,” he answered. 

‘‘I understand,” said Sulpice, “you are going to wait 
for Xavier.” 

“Yes, he must hear my decision to-night.” 

“ Remember your promise.” 

“ Have no fear, Sulpice. Rest in peace my good son!” 

The young priest went up to the top floor, where his 
room was situated. 

Sabine went to her little apartment, just between her 
father’s and Xavier’s. 

The young girl, who had begged her father to retire 
early, seated herself at a table, and began to write with 
the rapidity of inspiration and of joy. 

Meanwhile M. Pomereul rang for Baptiste. 

“ Let me know when M. Xavier comes in,” he said 
briefly. 

“ M. Xavier has been in more than an hour,” said the 
man. 

“Then ask him to come to my study.” 

A moment more, and Xavier was face to face with his 
father. 

His countenance bore traces of late hours and of 
premature excess; his eyes were dim, his lips colorless, 
his usually careful dress was disordered, his hands 
trembling with nervous excitement. 

“ Why did you not appear at dinner ?” said his father. 

The young man hung his head, but said nothing. 

“ Where were you ?” 

“At the club.” 

“ So you preferred the society of your friends to ours ?” 

“ I have not dined,” said Xavier, in a low voice. 

“What were you doing then ?” 

“I was playing.” 

“You were playing, and you lost, I suppose?” 


28 


IDOLS. 


“ I lost” 

“ A large sum ?” 

Yes, father.” 

“ How much ?” 

“ Forty thousand francs.” 

‘‘Your gaming purse is large then?” 

“ No. I played on my word.” 

“ Indeed. So there are people willing to risk forty 
thousand francs on your word. That shows considerable 
confidence in your honor.” 

“And my honesty.” 

“ How is that ?” 

“ It proves that if I make debts I pay them; if I con- 
tract a loan I make it good.” 

“ With what ?” said M. Pomereul. 

“With — well with the mone}^ you are good enough to 
give me.” 

“ Our interview is going to be longer then than I ex- 
pected,” said the father. “ I intended to let you stand 
like a criminal before his judge, but I pity your evident 
prostration, so take a seat and listen to me.” 

It was the first time Xavier had ever heard his father 
speak to him with such icy coldness. He lost the little 
assurance he had on entering, and almost fell into an 
arm-chair. 

“ When I married your mother,” began M. Pomereul, 
“she was poor; I was earning my living by my trade, 
and in those evil days we learned to know and appreci- 
ate each other. When fortune came, it found us pre- 
pared to encounter her perils. Your mother remained 
what she had ever been — a model of a woman and a 
wife. If she possessed jewels it was simply because it 
pleased me to bestow them. She never asked for them, 
and was never vain of them. She brought you children 
up without ever ceasing to be an accomplished woman, 


A PRODIGAL SON. 


29 


a charming and lovable companion to me. She watched 
over you as long as God spared her, and one day she 
left me alone. Yes, alone ; for though she left me you 
three, and you fill a great part of my heart, there is still 
a large portion which must remain forever widowed. I 
was true to that dear memory. I devoted myself to your 
education and that of Sulpice. You both received the 
same lessons, and from the same professors. Sulpice, it 
is true, had been longer under your mother’s care, and 
perhaps inherited more of her angelic character. Scarce- 
ly was he of an age to think when he became serious ; 
scarcely was it time for him to choose a profession when 
he chose the perpetual sacrifice of self, the abnegation 
of his whole life. He became a priest, and is already an 
apostle. The seminary took him from me, you alone re- 
mained. You alone were to live the life of the world, 
and sustain the family name among respectable people. 
If that does not excuse my weakness, it at least explains 
it. For awhile I thought your folly was but the fleeting 
effervescence of youth ; I did not put you under the yoke 
of labor soon enough, and every day I have felt that 
you are going farther and farther away from me.” 

“ Father—” 

“ Do not interrupt me, you will answer later. Your 
superfluous wants grew in proportion as they were satis- 
fied. You took me upon the weak side of affection and 
paternal vanity, and since then I have been nothing more 
to you than the purveyor of your wants, aye, the accom- 
plice of your faults. But one can stop anywhere, even on 
the decline of a hill. I see the abyss, I would escape it, 
and I feel you are rushing into it. I have purchased your 
horses, paid your debts, and it is enough. The banker 
is no more. The father can be found at your pleasure ; 
all that is necessary is a change of life. But I will not 
be content with promises. I want facts.” 


30 


IDOLS, 


“ Command me, father,” said Xavier, dejectedly. 

“You have incurred other debts?” 

“Yes, father.” 

“ Their total amount is — ” 

“ About twenty thousand francs.” 

“Let us add five for the about^'' said Pomereul, mark- 
ing the figures on a sheet of paper. 

“ I gave orders to an upholsterer to have my apart- 
ments refitted and my furniture renewed.” 

“ Furniture only five years in use ? Well, I can coun- 
termand the order, and if need be indemnify the uphol- 
sterer. As for the thirty thousand francs due to other 
creditors, the sale of your stable will suffice for that.” 

“What, sell my horses?” cried Xavier. 

“Yes, at the Tattersall next week.” 

“But they will say I am ruined.” 

“ I prefer that to being ruined myself.” 

“And to-day’s debt?” cried Xavier, anxiously. 

“ You must make some arrangement about it.” 

“Make arrangements for a gambling debt, father? 
Can you dream of such a thing? Why, it is sacred. My 
honor is at stake.” 

“ Sacred debt, honor !” cried M. Pomereul ; “truly you 
have a singular way of altering the meaning of words. 
Why, I ask you, is a gambling debt m^re sacred than 
any other ? Is it because gambling is in itself a vice ? 
For my part, sir, I hold that debt truly sacred which I 
incur towards a tradesman struggling for his livelihood, 
or a workman living by his salary. By failing to pay 
such a debt you drive the one to insolvency, the other to 
the street. It is a more serious matter than to disap- 
point some hot-headed boy, who stakes at the card-table 
a portion of his inheritance. Honor ! Why honor is to 
fulfil the duties imposed upon us by society and by oui 


A PRODIGAL SON. 


31 


conscience. For the soldier, it consists in defending his 
flag at the cost of his life ; for the magistrate, in unswerv- 
ing integrity; for the artist or man of letters, in em- 
ploying his talents to the best advantage ; for the mer- 
chant, in preserving his credit ; for the son, in showing 
his gratitude to his parents. Honor ! I can speak of it, 
sir, for I have kept my own. But I forbid you to men- 
tion the word in connection with a gambling debt. And 
as for the law, it considers them so sacred that it takes 
no cognizance of them.” 

“ Father, would you advise me to — ” 

I advise nothing. I simply say that I will not pay 
this debt.” 

“ Then, what am I to do ?” 

“ Make an arrangement with this creditor, as you have 
made with many others. You must ask for an extension 
of time, which will doubtless be granted you. You do 
not know, for you take no interest in family affairs, that 
Sabine was betrothed to-day to Benedict Fougerais. I 
do not think it right to sacrifice her share and that of 
Sulpice to your extravagance. I will not throw their 
fortune into the pit you dig for it. To-morrow you will 
take control of the factory, and will receive a salary of 
twelve thousand francs a year. By means of that sum 
you will pay this gaming debt.” 

“Father,” said Xavier, rising, his face livid, his limbs 
failing under him, “you will not compel me to do this, 
to admit my poverty, to ask for% delay ! Give me this 
forty thousand francs, and after that refuse what you 
will. Do not reduce me to shame and despair. What 
are forty thousand francs to you ?” 

“ Such a sum represents the careful savings of several 
families,” said the father. “Forty thousand francs' 
How many small tradesmen would it save from ruin. 


32 


IDOLS. 


how many people from despair. I tell you plainly you 
have spent more than your share of the inheritance. The 
rest belongs to Sabine and Sulpice.” 

“What use is such a fortune to my brother,” cried 
Xavier, “ who lives in a garret, goes barefoot from choice, 
and feeds on bread-and-water ?” 

“You forget the poor, sir.” 

“ Oh, it is horrible, atrocious !” cried the young man. 
“I am willing to amend, to give up everything, even to 
go into the factory, and be content with twelve thousand 
francs a year. But pay my debt, father, pay my debt. 
It must be paid, it must, do you see. I want your word 
for it, your promise. There is gold in that safe. Give 
me some of it till I pay, till I pay.” 

“ I have said no,” said the merchant struggling to 
overcome the impression which Xavier’s grief made upon 
him. 

“Take care, father, take care!” said Xavier, wildly, and 
as he spoke approaching his father’s desk. 

“Wretch, do you threaten me?” said M. Pomereul 
rising. 

Just as the father and son stood thus face to face, the 
one livid with rage, the other justly indignant, the study 
door was suddenly opened and Sabine, with a cry of 
horror, rushed between them. Xavier pushed her away, 
and the young girl weeping threw her arms around her 
father’s neck. He gently disengaged himself, saying, 
“Leave us, dear chilc^leave us, I beg of you; my dis- 
agreement with your brother is painful, it is true, but it 
need not alarm you.” 

“O Xavier!” cried Sabine turning to her brother, “do 
not sadden by a violent scene this day of my betrothal. 
Beg father’s pardon, for you must be wrong. He is 
goodness itself.” 

Xavier remained silent and morose. 


A PRODIGAL SON. 


33 


“ It is my turn to command, Sabine," said the father 
gravely, “ go to rest and come to me early. I want to 
speak to you." 

Sabine addressed a last entreaty to her brother, who 
looked at her with a sullen and lowering eye, then em- 
bracing her father she went away. ' 

“ You refuse me," said Xavier, “ you finally refuse me ?" 

I do," said his father. 

“ Then," cried the young man in a despairing tone, “ it 
is your doing if misfortune comes upon this house." 


34 


IDOLS. 


CHAPTER III. 

The Knights of the Black Cap. 

In the very heart of Paris, near the quays and bordering 
upon the river, in the broad light of day and in a pleasant 
neighborhood is a street or rather a narrow lane, through 
the centre of which runs a muddy stream and where 
high dark walls shut out the rays of the sun. The Rue 
Git-le-Coeur, one of the oldest streets in that ancient 
Paris which has disappeared under the progress of 
modern improvements, remained what it was in the mid- 
dle ages. But little more and it would require to have 
an iron chain stretched at either extremity of it, which 
together with the watch might enable honest citizens of 
Paris to sleep in peace. 

About half way down this street, some four years 
before this story opens, stood a squalid shop, full of rub- 
bish, rusty iron, broken or mended china, old clothes, 
curtains ready to fall into dust, copper vessels covered 
with verdigris, instruments of all trades which men 
may lawfully and openly pursue. 

We say lawfully and openly, for in dark corners of the 
shop were huge bunches of keys of every conceivable 
form, finely pointed chisels, files of exquisite perfection, 
pincers that were ma^erpieces in their kind, in fine, a 
whole collection of disavowed articles or articles which 
were seldom called for in any other language than that 
of slang. 

Father Methusalem, who owed his surname to his in- 
definite age, was, within the memory of a whole genera- 
tion of men, already old when he became proprietor of 
this shop and all its belongings. These belongings, be- 


THE KNIGHTS OF THE BLACK CAP. 


35 


ginning by a court dark as Erebus, gloomy as a prison 
gate, ended in a building for the construction of which 
Father Methusalem had made use of the most hetero- 
geneous elements. Wood and mortar had the principal 
share in it. The doors and windows had neither form, 
proportion, nor equilibrium. Several panes in the win- 
dow were supplied by greasy paper; hinges creaked, 
window bolts had ceased to work, the ancient stove 
smoked, and yet there appeared in white letters on a 
black board, placed just above the entrance door, the 
sign. Pension Bourgeoise. These words set us thinking. 
What sort of kitchen could there be in the underground 
depths of this extraordinary structure ? Who could be 
the customers of such a table a’hote ? 

In the middle of a large room stood a deal table, 
stained with wine and gravy, cut and hacked by the 
knives of the boarders, and set at the time when we 
entered with chipped plates, wooden spoons and iron 
forks. There were no knives, as the guests usually 
brought their own. Pewter mugs stood before each 
plate. Benches served for seats. There was but one 
chair in the room; it marked the place reserved for 
Father Methusalem. 

A dark, winding staircase with rickety steps led down 
into the depths of the cellar transformed into a kitchen. 
Upon a long range or furnace, in stew-pans as large as 
boilers, over a hot fire boiled a^ strange mixture, the 
olla podrida fiaily served up to the boarders; it was in 
fact the invariable dish. In the steaming mess were rab- 
bits, bones of mutton, chunks of beef, the tails of red 
herrings, sheeps’ tails, remnants of calves’ heads, beets, 
onions and lobster claws. A great lump of grease and 
several cloves of garlic gave all these components a cer- 
tain similarity of taste. Some fine chickens, ready for 
broiling, veal cutlets and beefsteaks laid out upon the 


IDOLS. 


36 

table proved that this establishment was capable of ris- 
ing to the level of circumstances. Beside the heavy, 
sodden-looking potato-salad was delicate lettuce or 
fresh red cabbage; close to the livid cheese, the odor of 
which, sui generis, betrayed its quality, a superb basket of 
fruit awaited those who were equal to the expense of a 
dainty meal. 

Among the tables, pots and kettles moved an extraor- 
dinary figure who seemed in perfect accordance with her 
sinister surroundings. It was a woman scarcely three 
feet high and apparently some fifty odd years of age. 
Her head was disproportionately large, her face sullen 
and dark in expression, enlivened ever and anon by a 
gleam of cold malice. Her grey hair, too abundant to 
be held in check by the red plaid handkerchief which 
covered it, hung loose upon her shoulders; in her great 
ears, which stood far out from her head, she wore a pair 
of ear-rings, such as might have belonged to some Nor- 
man peasant and so long that they touched her shoul- 
ders. The upper portion of this singular creature was of 
the usual proportions of a woman, but her lower limbs 
were unnaturally small. She had the appearance of a 
human trunk attached to a pair of broad flat feet. This 
horribly deformed being was dressed in a Brandenburg 
or hussar jacket, a faded blue skirt and shoes made from 
a pair of boots whence the uppers had been cut ofl. 

How Methusalem and this dwarfish creature had be- 
come acquainted, and why this singular pair, similar in 
vice, continued to remain together no one could tell. If 
Methusalem were the head of the house, La Naine * was 
undoubtedly its right arm, and her influence upon the 
dealer in questionable commodities was very great. 

The Naine was Methusalem’s factotum. She went to 


* Naine signifies a female dwarf.. 


THE KNIGHTS OF THE BLACK CAP. 


37 


market every day and made all necessary purchases; 
and also to the lowest restaurants, buying up at nominal 
prices the half spoiled remnants. A tin box received 
fish, meat and vegetables all in one, an earthenware jar, 
the coffee grains, tea-leaves, and crusts of bread, which 
were used for various culinary purposes. 

Meanwhile Methusalem Was taken up with commercial 
affairs; he kept the shop, and waited upon customers. 
He had customers of two sorts, those who needed tools, 
who wanted to hire a complete disguise for a day or a 
week, and those who wished to engage a room or take 
some meals at the Pension Bourgeoise. The ordinary 
meal cost ten sous. It comprised the daily dish, bread 
at discretion, a small bottle of wine and a cup of coffee. 
Dinners h la carte were such as might be provided at a 
second-class restaurant. 

A worn-out clock, of which the cuckoo disdained to 
appear, struck out six. The Naine immediately seized a 
spoon of unusual dimensions, and plunging it into the 
pot dipped up the soup. After which, taking the earth- 
enware tureen by both handles, she mounted the stairs 
with an agility surprising in a being so deformed. Just 
as she reached the dining-room the door leading from 
the courtyard opened, and a dozen or so of men, with 
Methusalem at their head entered. Each one took his 
own place, which was indicated by a sa_uare of copper, 
marked with a figure, and Methusalem began to serve. 

“Well, well, boys,” he said with a sort of grim jollity, 
“how goes business? Have you anything to sell or to 
exchange ? Who wants any rabbit skins, rusty iron, or 
broken glass?” 

“I do,” said a man of ferocious aspect, vrho was known 
as Rat-de-Cave. “I have six silver forks and spoons 
which Providence has thrown in my way; they are first 
class, and should sell for twenty-three centimes the 


IDOLS. 


38 

gram, but they might get one into trouble. People who 
forget these things on their dirt-heaps, dare to claim 
them before the magistrates, sometimes, but I’ll not 
give them the chance. Once melted up, silver never 
reappears except in the pocket. Will you oblige me by 
making these into ingots, Father Methusalem ?” 

“With pleasure, comrade, with pleasure,” said the 
old man, “but we must be quick about melting it, and 
you about selling it. Several silver mines have been dis- 
covered near Valparaiso, a pick is put into the earth, 
and presto, the metal gleams. So silver is going down 
in the Parisian market.” 

“Bah,” said Rat-de-Cave, “there is a tariff for silver.” 

“There is a tariff, true; but just take your ingots to 
the mint, my lad, and see what price they will offer you. 
It is a fine establishment, we must not speak ill of our 
neighbors; but suspicious, inquisitive, meddling; one 
cannot go there with an ounce of gold but they must 
know precisely where he got it.” 

“ How much will you pay for silver, then, Methu- 
salem?” asked Rat-de-Cave. 

“ Sixty-five centimes the gram,” said Methusalem, 
“ and I lose on it, it is merely to oblige a customer.” 

Rat-de-Cave shook his head, incredulously. 

“And you, Pomme d’Api,” asked Methusalem ad- 
dressing a boy about fourteen years of age, whose 
pallid, worn face betrayed an early acquaintance with 
vice, “ did you open many carriage doors last night, or 
pick up any cigar ends ?” 

“ I should think so,” said the boy, proudly, “ there was 
a beautiful actress; apiece, the ‘ Drame de la Misere,’ 
the play began at three o’clock; there was a crush and a 
crowd, no one looked out for his pocket. But the 
coming out was best of all, the street was packed, every 
one wanted carriages at the same time. I had ten of 


THE KNIGHTS OF THE BLACK CAP. 


39 


my men ready to my orders. When one of them told 
me the carriage was ready, I ran to open the door. I 
helped my lady in, I assisted a stout gentleman, and 
nearly every time, a fan, a lace handkerchief, or a piece 
of jewelry remained in my hands. Mere Fanfiche got 
the best of me, but it’s all one, I don’t complain. I love 
pretty actresses, as much at least as the great people do.” 

“So Mother Fanfiche had all the profits of the sale.?” 

“I kept whatever I could for you.” 

“And what do you want now.?” 

“ A complete costume of velvet, with shoes and hat to 
match.” 

“ You have some plan in your head ?” said Methusalem. 

“ I am going to the ball at Vauxhall,” said Pomme 
d’Api, “and I must be smart; there is no smuggling in 
in white blouses there; it is near the Custom House.” 

“ I say, Pomme d’Api,” said Rat-de-Cave, “be gallant, 
and take the Naine there, so that you will have a dancer 
ready to hand.” 

The Maine’s eyes flashed, and she replied, 

“ I’d have you to know that I want none of his com- 
pany, nor the likes of him either. If I had wished, I could 
have been the wife of a man who could raise four weights 
of three pounds each, with his arms extended, and who 
could have knocked you all down with one blow of his fist.” 

At this outbreak, Methusalem’s guests all laughed out- 
right. 

“ And you refused a husband of that sort,” said Pomme 
d’Api, “By my faith, you’re hard to please; are you 
waiting for the King of Siam, or must your heart be 
touched like the strings of a guitar ?” 

“My reasons do not concern you, miserable pigmy,” 
cried the Naine. 

“Then why do you confide in us?” said the boy; “and 
if it comes to that, I know all about it.” 


40 


IDOLS. 


“Stop,” cried the Naine, “stop.” 

“If you get angry, I’ll tell his name,” said Pomme 
d’Api. “ I know more than you think about the romance 
of your life, and it was queer enough how I got to hear 
it. It was one night at a gingerbread fair. The Mounte- 
bank saw his clown come in dead drunk, to the despair 
of the manager. I saw there were some pence to be 
earned, and I offered to take his place. The man 
thought me rather ambitious, but he questioned me 
about my gifts, and finding that I could receive a kick 
or a box in the ear gracefully, he engaged me secretly, 
saying never a word to his master. After the show, 
being charmed with my debut and the receipts, they 
invited me to supper. I accepted, and at dessert Signor 
Guigolfo asked me to enter his troupe. I declined the 
honor, informing Guigolfo that I exercised the lucra- 
tive trade of opener of carriages, and dealer in theatre 
checks. 

“I spoke of Father Methusalem’s boarding-house, and 
of you, Naine, and Guigolfo exclaimed, ‘ By your de- 
scription, I am sure I knew her once.’ 

“ ‘ Bah,’ cried I, incredulously. 

“ ‘ It is so.’ 

“ ‘ How and where ?’ I asked. 

“‘ It is a long time, now, since such a woman became a 
member of our company. She brought with her a child 
some three years of age, pale and delicate, with eyes of 
clear amber, and dress that bespoke wealth. We could 
easily train the child, and as for the woman, she had 
only to show herself to make an audience laugh. I en- 
gaged her. During her engagement we went through 
Spain, Italy, and France; when I offered to renew our 
agreement, she said that she wanted to put the child 
under .a regular course of study. Study indeed, a fine 
joke! I had taught her enough to gain a living in anv 


THE KNIGHTS OF THE BLACK CAP. 


41 


city of Europe. But remonstrance was useless, she took 
the child, and I never saw her since. If she is in want, 
give me her address. There is always place for her in 
the company.’ I promised Guigolfo to bring you to him, 
but I always forgot. Perhaps I should never have re- 
membered this episode, if you had not spoken of 
your journeys, and the athlete who asked you in mar- 
riage.” 

An expression of pain and rage crossed the woman’s 
face, and she would have thrown the bottle she held in 
her hand at the boy’s head, had not Methusalem, seeing 
the danger, interposed, reminding Naine of her duties, 
and calling..Pomme d’Api to order. 

Supper went off gayly. 

After it was over, the Naine lit a petroleum lamp, 
which gave out a horrid odor, and each one of the guests 
lighting his pipe or his cigar, soon filled the room with 
a dense cloud of smoke. 

Conversation had ceased, the Naine was about to 
bury herself in the black depths of the kitchen, when a 
young man of some twenty years of age opened the 
dining-room door. He quickly removed his hat, put it 
under his left arm with a graceful gesture, and drawing 
from his pocket a soft cap of black silk, placed it jauntily 
upon the side of his head, and advanced into the circle 
of smokers. 

“ Hurrah for the Knights of the Black Cap!” said he 
in a sonorous voice. 

This was the signal; every one of the guests im- 
mediately put on a similar head gear, and once bearing 
this passport, became mutually confidential and com- 
municative. 

“ Have you dined, Fleur d’Echafaud?” asked the Naine 
of the new-comer. 

^‘No, bring me whatever you like, only see that it is 


42 


IDOLS. 


good, and in a private room. Rat-de-Cave will keep me 
company.” 

“ Willingly,” answered Rat-de-Cave. 

“ What,” cried Methusalem, “ concealment from the 
Father of the Knights of the Black Cap!” 

“ You will know all in a day or two, old man,” said the 
new-comer. 

“ Agreed, I permit the consultation.” 

The Naine soon appeared, with a beefsteak deliciously 
cooked, salad and a bottle of wine. She laid the table 
in a neighboring room, and Rat-de-Cave was soon 
closeted there with his hopeful associate. 

The latter, whom they called by the name of Flour 
d’Echafaud (Gallows-Flower), was a good-looking, 
well-made youth, carefully dressed and intelligent. His 
face was a perfect oval, his eyes were blue, and not 
as yet dimmed by late hours, his brows finely pencilled, 
and delicately arched. If his lips were somewhat too 
thin, they had a trick of smiling pleasantly. His hands 
were white, his feet small. His hair, reddish in color, 
showed to advantage the delicacy of his complexion. 
Everything about him indicated a man who had led an 
easy life, and whose habits would seem to have led him 
far from the motley assemblage by which he had been 
so rapturously received. 

“Well, young un,” said the old thief, “I smell a rat.” 

“You are not mistaken, devil’s limb,” said the other. 

“ What’s the game?” 

“ A hundred thousand francs to divide.” 

“ And the danger?” 

“ The danger is little.” 

“ All right then, youngster, the game’s worth the risk.” 

Meanwhile the Naine from a convenient corner lis- 
tened quite as attentively as did Rat-de-Cave, while his 
associate continued as follows: 


THE KNIGHTS OF THE BLACK CAP. 


43 


“ Here it is, then,” said Fleur d’Echafaud: my master, 
Antoine Pomereul, had a visit the other day from his 
great friend, Nicois, the banker. I met him by chance 
in the hall, and struck by the expression of his face, con- 
cluded that there was a secret on foot. So as soon as he 
had been ushered in, I listened to every word of his inter- 
view with my master. We can so easily make other peo- 
ple’s affairs our own. I learned, then, to my great sur- 
prise that the banker Nicois, having been imprudent at 
the Bourse, ran the risk of being found out, and came to 
borrow a hundred thousand francs from the millionaire. 
To do M. Pomereul justice, he is goodness and honesty 
itself; he treats me, his secretary, as kindly as he does 
his son, M. Xavier. I was not therefore surprised to 
hear him promise the money to his friend, and I deter- 
mined to profit by this circumstance. I have been three 
years in his house, and have had time to take the form 
of every key, and to have the most important ones 
duplicated. M. Pomereul got the money at two o’clock 
to-day. To-night it will rest quietly in his safe, and we 
must take it from there.” 

“ But of course you have not the key of the safe ?” 
asked Rat-de-Cave. 

“ If it had been in my possession for an hour,” said his 
companion, “ I would have duplicated it also, but my 
master always keeps it.” 

“ During the day, yes, but at night?” 

“ At night he places it under his pillow.” 

“ And we have to get it from there?” 

“ Yes.” 

‘Ht is a dangerous game, an extremely dangerous 
game, my young friend,” said Rat-de-Cave; “doors to 
open, chests to force, are in my line, but to get my 
fingers under a pillow I always find hard. If Pomereul 
should wake?” 


44 


IDOLS. 


“ Then we will send him to sleep again,” said Fleur 
d’Echafaud coolly, “ that is all.” 

“ I do not like that kind of work. It’s a pretty steep 
business, when the share is doubtful.” 

“Do you refuse?” 

“ I don’t say that, but — ” 

“ Fifty thousand francs!” 

“ That’s tempting, but still — ” 

“ Bah, would you make me believe, that so old a mon- 
key has never learned to make faces? That you were 
never surprised, embarrassed, and in a moment of mad 
fear or avarice used your knife?” 

“Never,” said Rat-de-Cave. “I am a thief, a robber, 
what you will, but it stops there. I know every kind 
of thieving, and if need be, could invent more. I could 
take away a horse and carriage as easily as a pair of 
shoes, no game is too small for me. When I can’t find 
some old chap with a pocket full of gold, I am content 
with a box of spice from the grocer. I prefer petty 
larceny to grand, because it often brings in as much, 
and isn’t dangerous. What makes a first-class pick- 
pocket is his sharpness in running risks, without taking 
his chanae of a free voyage to New Caledonia. I 
thought I taught you all this before.” 

“You did, and I generally follow your advice,” said 
Fleur d’Echafaud; “but this time the temptation is so 
great that I cannot hesitate. Do you think, old chap, 
it’s worth while having founded the most wonderful 
institution of the age, when it brings in so little profit? 
I live well enough, it’s true, but I have no carriage.” 

“ Such luxury as that will let up on you,” said Rat-de- 
Cave. 

“Oh, I’ll manage that,” said the other. “Once the 
capital is in my hand. I’ll take a run at Monaco. I can 
risk a few thousand francs on the roulette-table, and 


THE KNIGHTS OF THE BLACK CAP. 


45 


whether I win or lose, it will matter little. I shall be 
known as a gambler, that suffices. I shall tell my friends 
I won, treat them at the Cafe Anglais, invite some new's- 
paper men, and next day the morning journals will have 
it that I broke the bank at Monaco. Thenceforth I can 
have horses and elegant apartments, and no one will 
inquire where or how I got the means to keep them. 
You admit that I am good at inventions; give me your 
hand; have confidence in me, and lend me your help 
to-night.” 

“ The merchant goes early to bed ?” asked Rat-de- 
Cave. 

“ Very early.” 

“ His servants ?” 

“Are on the fifth floor, and go up there as soon as M. 
Pomereul retires.” 

“ His children?” 

“ Mile. Sabine usually retires at nine. The eldest son 
scarcely ever dines at his father’s table, and as for M. 
Xavier, he never comes in till daybreak, for he plays at 
the club all night.” 

“So we shall be alone.” 

“ Entirely.” 

“The only danger is if M. Pomereul wakes.” 

“In that case, coward, I will take charge of him,” said 
Fleur d’Echafaud, with a sinister smile, which rendered 
his face positively hideous. 

Rat-de-Cave rose. 

“ Count on me,” he said. 

“Everything must be ready,” said Fleur d’Echafaud; 
“we will wear tradesmen’s clothes, take a carriage, which 
will set us down at the corner of the Rue de la Chaussee 
d’Antin, the overcoat which we carry on our arm will 
conceal a blouse, in case there is need of further disguise. 
At the door we shall ask for M. Sulpice Pomereul; his 


46 IDOLS. 

room is above his father’s; the concierge will suppose 
we are engaged in conversation with the priest; we shall 
get into our carriage and go to finish the night at some 
theatre, and next day Jean Machu will return to his 
ordinary occupations, and Fleur d’Echafaud will go as 
usual to M. Pomereul’s, to fulfil his duties as secretary.” 

“I shall be with you.” 

“ Till to-night then, at the passage Choiseul, where we 
will take our carriage.” 

The two wretches arose; but closely connected as they 
were by their complicity in crime, it was with profound 
disgust that Fleur d’Echafaud gave his hand to Jean 
Machu, alias Rat-de-Cave. 

As they went out of the room the man muttered, 
looking after the young man, 

“ He will stop at nothing, at nothing 1” 

The return of Rat-de-Cave and Fleur d’Echafaud was 
hailed with acclamation. 

“Thanks, good friends,” said Fleur d’Echafaud. 

“There you have genius, coolness, daring,” said Rat- 
de-Cave, pointing out his companion to Father Methu- 
salem. 

“And such a contour!” added Fleur d’Echafaud, with 
a gesture of indescribable insolence and conceit. 

Then turning to the group of “ Knights of the Black 
Cap,” he said: 

“ Marc Mauduit, secretary of the millionaire Pomereul, 
must now show himself on the boulevard. Sans adieu^ 
my friends.” 

Leaving the courtyard, Fleur d’Echafaud stuffed his 
cap into the breast pocket of his coat, put on his beaver, 
and soon reached the thoroughfare. 


THE CRIME. 


4/ 


CHAPTER IV. 

The Crime. 

After the terrible scene which had passed between 
Monsieur Pomereul and his son, Xavier shut himself 
up in his room. The idea of returning to the club with- 
out paying his debt was insupportable to him, and he 
knew his friends too well to hope to obtain from them 
the sum which he so urgently required. Once alone, 
he paced the floor in uncontrollable rage, giving vent 
alternately to threats, and exclamations of shame and 
despair. 

The Abbe Sulpice asked to be admitted. Xavier 
obstinately refused. Yet he knew that, far from adding 
to his suffering, the young priest would, on the contrary, 
alleviate it ; still, instead of being grateful for his kind- 
ness, he regarded it as an expression of contempt. It 
made him angry to think that Sulpice had money in the 
safe, without reflecting, as his father had told him, that 
Sulpice’s possessions were the patrimony of the poor. 
Blinded by his passions, harassed by his urgent neces- 
sities, he could not believe that there was any one in the 
world so unhappy as he, or any situation so terrible as his. 

Besides he was mistaken; all the abbe’s savings had 
gone the previous week to save a worthy man and the 
father of a family from bankruptcy. Moreover if, in his 
strict integrity, the young priest, like his father, believed 
that all debts, even gambling debts, should be paid to 
the last cent, he thought it but just that Xavier should 
pay his by instalments. Had he not after that fashion 
paid debts as sacred as these ? Sulpice would also have 
considered it wrong to abet Xavier in his evil ways by 


48 


IDOLS. 


furnishing him with the means. There was no way to 
save him, except by letting the rotten planks of the 
vessel which was carrying him astray break beneath his 
feet. Although resolved to use his influence later with 
his father that Xavier might be relieved, he thought it 
best at the time to let him fathom the depths of the gulf 
which yawned before him. 

But Xavier was in no mood to listen to sound reason, 
to take advice, to seek for truth and light. He thought 
of but one thing, and that was his debt. Already he 
saw his name placed at the club among the bankrupts, a 
punishment inflicted on all members who did not dis- 
charge their gambling debts after a short interval. He 
told himself he would rather be branded as a murderer 
than incur such disgrace. It would forbid him the 
enU'ee to all fashionable clubs; his most intimate friends 
would cut him on the street. So, as he believed it im- 
possible to exist without going to the club and being on 
familiar terms with the men about town, he fell into a 
sort of despair and hated all whom he had hitherto loved. 
The life which he had led for five years had deprived 
him of all sense of justice and injustice. A quench- 
less thirst for new pleasures, each of which left a sting, 
consumed him. To struggle against the weariness of 
monotonous pleasures and mad folly he exercised his 
imagination to find amongst them all something new. 
Without taking any special interest in horses, he went 
to races; without being fond of dancing, he was forever 
at the ballet; without any real love for art, he bought 
pictures. 

Having lost all idea of what was really good and 
beautiful he despised its true language. The slang of 
the clubs or the boulevards enlivened his conversation. 
He aimed at being witty, but cared nothing W real wit 


THE CRIME. 


49 


and intelligence. Most of his stories were those which 
he read in the daily papers. It must not. be supposed, 
however, that the speech of his companions, the gentlemen 
of the Jockey Club, was very profound or that their opin- 
ions were expressed in studied phrases. Their judgment 
of books, theatres, equipages, everything in fact was ex- 
pressed by ‘‘it has or it has not chic'' That meant all. 
Whoever was wanting in chic might possess all the car- 
dinal and theological virtues combined with the rarest 
genius, but still be of no account. 

Xavier sat absorbed in gloomy reflections when the 
door of his room opened and Sabine entered. At sight 
of her the young man could not restrain a gesture of im- 
patience. 

“ Do not be angry, Xavier,’' she said, gently. “ I know 
you refused to see Sulpice and yet I ventured to come. 
For, kind and indulgent as our brother is, his black robe 
frightens you, and you dread his advice. I do not come 
to offer any; I have no right, nor is it my place to do so. 
I do not even know what you have done wrong. I even 
forget that you threatened our father in my presence. 
All I want is for you to become yourself again and make 
peace with us all. I do nol want my betrothal to be 
saddened by your suffering. For I was happy yester- 
day, until your sorrow cast a shadow upon my joy. You 
want money do you not ? here is my purse; it is not very 
heavy, what v/ith collections, charity, and one thing or 
another. It contains just two thousand francs.” 

Xavier smiled sadly. 

“ Thank you, Sabine, but two thousand francs would 
not pay what I owe the Count de Monjoux.” 

“ But that is not all,” said the young girl, putting her 
hand into her pocket; “here are my jewels.” 

Xavier took them with feverish hand, necklaces, ear- 


50 


IDOLS. 


rings, rings, all that his sister offered him; he examined 
them, calculated their value, then threw them into 
Sabine’s lap. 

“ I would get scarcely ten thousand francs for all,” he 
said; “it would not be worth while depriving you of 
them for that.” 

“ Then here,” said Sabine, resolutely unfastening the 
bracelet which her father had given her the evening 
previous; “for great evils, great remedies; pawn this 
bracelet, Xavier, but do not sell it, it was our mother’s. 
I will explain it to papa some way or another.” 

“You would make a bad liar, Sabine.” 

“ Then I shall simply tell the truth,” said the young 
girl, gently. “ I may be scolded because of the princi- 
ple. . . . But I love you so much, Xavier, that I really 
think I suffer more than you do. But, in acting as he 
does, our father wants to save you, to bring you back to 
us, and to the home circle where you come so rarely.” 

“ Sabine, you promised not to reproach me.” 

“I am not doing so. I am pleading our cause, mine, 
my father’s, Sulpice’s. We all suffer on your account. 
Wherever you may go, believe me, you will find none 
to love you as we do. So, if you still feel any affection 
for your sister, accept what will restore you peace, sell 
the jewels, pawn the bracelet, discharge your debt and 
promise me never to act so again.” 

“You are a dear creature, Sabine, and I am far from 
being worthy of your goodness. But keep your jewels, 
child, I have forty thousand francs to pay to-night and 
what you possess represents but half.” 

“ Ah ! if I had my dowry !” cried Sabine. 

“ When you have, your husband will take care of that,” 
said Xavier. 

“ He ? how little you know him ! Benedict says he 
wants me to be poor, very poor. Is he not a flatterer?” 


THE CRIME. 


51 


It is worse than flattery, my poor child; it is absurd- 
ity. A year or two of housekeeping will cure you both 
of this pretty folly and generosity.” 

“ But how are you going to pay Count de Monjoux r 
asked she. 

“ I do not know !” cried Xavier; “ but there is no al- 
ternative. I must pay, or I will blow my brains out. I 
will never live dishonored.” 

“ And you would die, O Xavier ! die, and by suicide, 
for such a debt as this !” 

“To judge of such a matter is not girls’ work, my dear 
child. I have twelve hours before me to find an alterna- 
tive which may save me.” 

■ “You must find it ! Oh ! tell me you will find it !” 
cried Sabine. 

“I will find it,” said Xavier, impatiently; “but you 
must let me seek it. If I should chance to need you, I 
will remember your offer. Leave me now, dear Sabine; 
I must be alone.” 

The young girl hesitated. Her brother’s hardness 
alarmed her. She had hoped he might be touched by 
her tenderness; she expected one word, one look of the 
old affection; but Xavier’s heart was hard, and the ex- 
pected word did not pass his lips. The young girl took 
up her jewels and her purse in a kind of shamefaced 
way; she had reached the door, when Xavier suddenly 
followed and kissed her, saying: 

“ You are a good sister, Sabine. An angel upon 
earth.” 

The tears rushed into her eyes, and she hurried out. 

Left alone, Xavier almost blushed at his momentary 
weakness. He covered his face with his hands as if seek- 
ing an inspiration. He remembered his sister’s words: 
“ If I had my dowry.” “ Yes, but even if Benedict does 
not repent of his chivalrous absurdity,” he thought, “the 


52 


IDOLS. 


marriage will not take place for a month at least, and I 
cannot wait. Her dowry ? If I were to marry, my father 
would have to give me one. That money would be mine, 
to dispose of at my will. No doubt; but I must remain 
free. What would be the amount of Sabine’s dowry? 
I think father spoke of five hundred thousand francs. 
Yes, since my majority, he puts it for Sulpice and me at 
twenty-five thousand pounds of interest, the principal to 
come later. So Sabine will have half a million; and in 
justice he owes me as much. One fifth of that sum 
would save me. I could pay that envious idiot, Mon- 
joux, who is jealous of my horses and of my success. I 
could pay for the* new furniture, and have a hundred 
thousand francs pocket-money.” 

Xavier began to pace furiously up and down the 
room. ‘‘To know it is here — in this very house — within 
a few yards of me !” 

A dark flush passed over his face at the thought which 
occurred to him, and he threw himself heavily into a 
chair. Yet he did not drive the odious thought from his 
mind, but simply tried to put it in another way. 

“ Well, after all, would it not only be what lawyers call 
an advance of inheritance?” said he. 

He went to the bookcase and took out a large book 
with sprinkled edges. He turned it over long and dili- 
gently, till at last he found what he sought. 

‘’ The law understands the matter,” said he; “it is nei- 
ther crime nor misdemeanor to borrow money from one’s 
father,. whether by making an appeal to his heart or open- 
ing his safe. Article 380 reads: ‘Thefts committed by 
children, to the prejudice of their father and mother, can 
only be made good by civil reparation.’ 

“ I run no risk; my father will be very angry, and may 
even curse me. But his curse may be withdrawn, his 
anger appeased, and I have no choice.” Xavier took a 


THE CRIME. 


53 


sudden, irrevocable resolution. A moment before de- 
jected, despairing, he was now full of hope and courage. 
But far as he was already advanced in his fatal path, 
what he was about to do, in spite of all his sophisms, 
seemed so desperate, so terrible a crime, that he felt the 
necessity of stupefying his faculties till the proper mo- 
ment had come. The clock struck noon. He rang his 
bell; Baptiste appeared, and Xavier ordered breakfast in 
his room. 

“ Do not forget the Chartreuse and some good cham- 
pagne,” said he. 

When his meal came, he drank more than he ate. 

His repast ended, he lit a cigar and began to smoke. 
So passed the day. He wrote a note to the Count de 
Monjoux, begging him to excuse his slight but unavoid- 
able delay in discharging his debt; and smoked on again 
till dinner-time. After that, he kept up his courage by 
brandy and green Chartreuse, observing from his room 
the various movements in the house. In that peaceful 
dwelling, where he was the only element of disorder, the 
greatest regularity prevailed, even to the minutest de- 
tails. M. Pomereul retired early. Their duties ended, 
the servants went to their apartments in the highest 
story of the house. That he might be more free to ex- 
ercise his ministry of charity and consolation at all hours 
of the night, the Abbe Sulpice occupied a room, fur- 
nished like the cell of a monk, on the same floor with 
the servants. 

By half-past ten Sabine and her father were the only 
two upon the first floor, except Lipp-Lapp, who slept in 
a little alcove just off his master's bedroom. When the 
merchant was asked why he did not keep his faithful 
Baptiste near him, he always answered. 

” I depend upon Lipp-Lapp; his courage and fidelity 
are sufficient for my safety.” 


54 


IDOLS. 


The hours seemed to Xavier to drag painfully. Fever- 
ishly he watched the slow-moving hands of the clock. 
He dared not enter his father’s room before midnight, 
lest he should have sat up late reading. But when he 
had counted twelve strokes of the clock he rose, and, 
barefooted, opened his door and crept cautiously to- 
wards his father’s room. The old man slept, but some 
painful thought seemed to haunt his sleep. Shadows 
passed over that face, which was usually so serene, and 
the name of Xavier fell indistinctly from his lips. The 
criminal paused in affright. Had his father recognized 
him ? But no ! Pomereul was dreaming. Under the 
influence of his dreams he made a hasty movement, and 
disarranging the pillows, showed a little bunch of keys, 
amongst which was that of the safe. 

Xavier’s hesitation vanished; he seized the keys and 
turned away. 

Pomereul slept on. 

Xavier left the door half open behind him, and entered 
the study. Though his father had never confided the 
key of the safe to him, yet he knew the one which opened 
it. Taking a little bedroom lamp, he entered the dark 
room where M. Pomereul kept his books and valuables. 
That day Marc Mauduit, the secretary, had placed there 
the hundred thousand francs destined for Andre Nicois, 
and never had an occasion more favorable been offered to 
a son descending to the level of a thief to satisfy his ex- 
pensive tastes and shameful passions. Xavier laid down 
the lamp upon the table, chose the key, fitted it to the se- 
cret lock, and the safe opened. Heaps of bank-notes lay 
before his eyes. He stood irresolute. Strange phenome- 
non ! Why did he not eagerly seize the money which a 
moment before he had persuaded himself would give him 
rest ? Why did he not remember the article of .law which 
had sustained him all that day ? He forgot that, but he 


THE CRIME. 


55 


saw at last what he really was — a thief. In presence of 
the gold, of the bank-notes for which he had so longed, 
he judged and condemned himself. The hot blood 
mounted to his face; as he drew back from the open 
door with a gesture of horror his eyes fell upon the por- 
trait of his mother, .where it hung above the safe. Her 
pure image seemed to reproach him with his crime, and 
implore him to degrade himself no farther. Terror min- 
gled with remorse, and Xavier drew back, farther and 
farther, his eyes still fixed upon the features of the dead; 
back till he had passed out of the study, leaving the 
door of the safe still open, leaving the keys in the secret 
lock. 

“To-morrow I will confess all,” he said, “and accept 
whatever punishment my father may inflict” 

When he had reached his own room, Xavier threw 
himself still dressed upon the bed. Overcome with 
shame, terror, and remorse, he relentlessly condemned 
and cursed his own folly and wickedness, till at last he 
melted into tears like a child. 

While tardy remorse thus triumphed over Xavier’s per- 
versity, two men rang at the door of the hotel Pomereul. 
They asked for the Abbe Sulpice. The concierge^ half 
asleep, uncertain whether he Vas in or not, allowed them 
to go up. Instead of proceeding to the third story, the 
two men, who were no other than Rat-de-Cave and 
Fleur d’Echafaud, stopped at the first floor. Fleur 
d’Echafaud opened the door with a dexterity which was, 
to say the least, remarkable. The two men entered and 
closed it after them. 

“Was I not right?” said Fleur d’Echafaud; “there is 
none to interfere with us; we are masters of the situa- 
tion; let us try to make good use of it. Now for Pom- 
ereul’s study.” 

Rat-de-Cave cautiously threw the light of his lantern 


5(5 


IDOLS. 


into every corner of the room; as it fell on the open safe 
he cried out, 

“We are robbed; some one has been before us/’ 

“Let us examine,” said Fleur d’Echafaud. 

The robbers knelt down and groped in the safe with 
their hands. 

“Do not touch the bonds,” said Fleur d’Echafaud; 
“ they would only compromise us; let us stuff the bills 
into our pockets and be off.” 

Rat-de-Cave and his companion began to fill the 
pockets of their overcoats with bank-notes. They had 
almost finished when a slight noise made them turn. 
They scarcely suppressed a cry of terror. M. Pomereul, 
in his dressing gown, had come into the study. When 
Xavier, carried away by his intense desire to procure 
money at any cost, even that of crime, had entered his 
father’s room, the latter was sleeping a feverish sleep, 
almost like nightmare. In his dreams he had a con- 
sciousness of danger. Threatened by unknown foes, he 
was defending himself fighting; a terrible shock caused 
him to awake with a start, his face haggard, the cold 
perspiration standing out on his forehead, his limbs 
trembling. For a moment he could not collect his 
thoughts, confusing the real scenes of the evening past 
with the more horrible ones of his dream. Xavier’s 
name came involuntarily to his lips, and the pain at his 
heart convinced him that he suffered from nothing else 
than the misdeeds, the harsh words, the threats of his 
misguided son. Pomereul’s eyes fell mechanically upon 
the door of his room; it was ajar, and he remembered 
perfectly having closed it when he came in. The thought 
that some one had been in his room while he slept crossed 
his mind. But who could it be ? Sulpice ? Why, Sul- 
pice had told him he would be obliged to go to La Vil- 
lette, and that he would not return till very late. Sabine ? 


THE CRIME. 


57 


Sabine never came into her father’s room at night; she 
was asleep long ago. M. Pomereul had heard her light 
step going about her household duties, and then silence, 
the time for prayer and sleep. Xavier ! oh, if it were 
Xavier ! 

This thought, and the deep anguish it caused him, in- 
stinctively led M. Pomereul to look under the pillows 
where he usually kept the keys. He could not find them. 
He turned over pillows and bed-clothes. “ Ah ! the 
wretch has robbed me,” he cried. 

He sprang out of bed, threw on his dressing-gown, and 
taking no light, lest it should betray him, stole softly to 
the study. The door was open, Pomereul looked in, and 
saw a man kneeling before the safe, busy emptying it. 
There could be no doubt it was Xavier. Full of just 
wrath Pomereul advanced hastily, and in his haste, and 
owing to the dim light of Rat-de-Cave’s lantern, he 
overturned a stool. At that moment the robbers turned; 
and at that moment Pomereul saw their faces and knew 
he had to deal with burglars. Rat-de-Cave and Fleur 
d’Echafaud exchanged glances; they understood each 
other perfectly; above all things M. Pomereul must not 
be allowed to summon help. Rat-de-Cave sprang upon 
the merchant, and twined his bony fingers round his neck. 
A stifled cry escaped from the old man; he struggled 
desperately, his eyes rolling in their sockets. He col- 
lected all his energy, and by a desperate effort would 
have released himself from Rat-de-Cave’s hold, but the 
latter tripped him, and he fell panting to the ground. A 
providential succor arrived. A guttural cry was heard 
from a corner of the room, and a creature, whose nature 
neither of the robbers could define, sprang upon Fleur 
d’Echafaud, as the latter was about to assist Rat-de-Cave 
in finishing their victim. It was the faithful Lipp-Lapp, 
who, hearing Pomereul leave his room at an unusual 


58 


IDOLS. 


hour, became uneasy, and followed him, guessing with 
his wonderful instinct that the merchant would have 
need of him. With sudden and terrible force, which 
almost compelled Rat-de-Cave to loosen his hold, the 
chimpanzee threw himself upon the assassin, paralyzing 
all farther effort on his part. 

“ The devil is helping him,” howled Rat-de-Cave. 

“Why it is the ape,” cried Fleur d’Echafaud; “finish 
the old man, I will look after him.” 

The brief moment in which Pomereul was released 
from his assailant gave him time to draw breath, and 
collect all his strength. While Fleur d’Echafaud was 
preparing to dispose of the chimpanzee by strategy 
rather than by force, Rat-de-Cave felt that his prey was 
escaping him. But Fleur d’Echafaud, drawing a dagger 
from his breast, struck the animal with it on the shoulder, 
and turned upon him the anger and vengeance of the ape. 
With one hand Lipp-Lapp seized Fleur d’Echafaud by 
his red hair, and in the spirit of imitation common to 
his race, took him by the throat with the other. Fleur 
d’Echafaud would have been strangled like Pomereul, 
whom Rat-de-Cave had again thrown down; but he struck 
the monkey once more in the breast with his fatal wea- 
pon; Lipp-Lapp relaxed his hold, and fell full length on 
the floor, howling piteously. 

“That’s one out of the way,” said Fleur d’Echafaud. 

“The old man is dead,” said Rat-de-Cave. 

“Let us be off quickly,” said Fleur d’Echafaud; “we 
have provided a sensation for all to-morrow’s papers.” 

Distrusting Rat-de-Cave, or fearing he was mistaken, 
he bent over the corpse, and questioned the pulseless 
heart. “ All right,” said he, “ a first-class funeral. As 
private secretary, I shall follow the corpse.” 

The assassins pulled up the collar of their coats, drew 
their hats over their eyes, extinguished their dark Ian- 


THE CRIME. 


59 


tern, went out of the room, and ‘quietly descended the 
stairs. The noise of the street-door closing made them 
pause to listen. Some one had come in. A firm step 
sounded on the marble of the vestibule. The same 
thought occurred to Rat-de-Cave and his companion, 
'‘We are lost.” 


6o 


IDOLS. 


CHAPTER V. 

The Secret of God. 

Notwithstanding their habitual effrontery, the two 
villains were now utterly terror-stricken. If it should 
chance to be a servant belonging to the house, he would 
undoubtedly ask their business, nor was it likely he 
would accept the excuse which had satisfied the sleepy 
concierge^ that they wanted the Abbe Sulpice. He 
would in all probability call for assistance, and have 
them taken upon the very scene of their double crime. 
Whereas to murder him upon the stairs as he came up 
would be a most dangerous proceeding. In their sus- 
pense they went half way up to the second story, and 
leaning over the bannister, caught a good view of a 
dark figure on the stairs below. Recognizing him by 
his cassock, Rat-de-Cave whispered, 

“The Abbe Sulpice.” 

As he spoke the wretch drew a silk handkerchief from 
his pojjJcet, and muffling his neck and the lower part of 
his face with it, said to his companion, 

“ Watch whatever I do, and say whatever I say, and 
we are saved.” 

He went down as coolly as if he had come on some 
legitimate business. The Abbe Sulpice hearing the 
sound of footsteps, looked up, and saw the two men 
advancing towards him. Rat-de-Cave addressed him 
in a tone at once agitated and respectful: 

“ The Abbe Pomereul, I believe,” he said. 

“ That is my name,” said Sulpice; “ what do you want 
of me?” 


THE SECRET OF GOD. 6l 

“We were told by the concierge that you were at 
home, and came to ask for your ministry.” 

“ Is it a serious case?” asked the priest. 

“The salvation of a soul is at stake.” 

The poor priest was thoroughly exhausted, prostrate 
in body and mind. He had passed through one of those 
terrible struggles the secrets of which are known to the 
ministers of God alone. 

He had remained for five hours at a death-bed. He 
had disputed a soul with the powers of darkness. He 
had wrestled with the ungovernable fear of death. He 
had prayed and implored and wept by turns; to soften a 
stony heart, he had chosen the most touching and most 
consoling promises of Christ, and when he saw that they 
had no power to soften nor to touch the hapless soul, which 
was then in its agony, he had called down, as it were, the 
avenging thunders of God, brought to those dying ears 
the sound of the angel’s trumpet, pictured all the horrors 
of the dreadful valley, opened the depths of the abyss, 
and showed the awful vision of the eternity of the 
damned. Seized with affright, the dying man had 
clutched the priest, as the drowning clutch the object 
nearest them, and begged that he might be reconciled 
with his Judge. The priest having administered the 
sacraments, had gently and gradually calmed the wild 
terror of that soul, weighed down by the weight of its 
sins. And the faithful laborer had come home; the day 
was done, the sheaves gathered in, and he was about to 
rest from those toils, which are like unto no other toils, 
when the two men waiting for him said, “The salvation 
of a soul is at stake.” 

He did not hesitate a, moment. 

“ Let us go at once,” he said. 

“ It is a great distance from here,” said Rat-de-Cave, 
“ so we have brought a carriage.” 


62 


IDOLS. 


‘‘ Very well,’' said the priest, as he knocked at the glass 
door of the conciergerie ; it was opened, they passed out. 

“Our carriage is just here,” said Rat-de-Cave. 

So short a time had elapsed since they went into the 
house that the driver merely supposed they had been 
waiting for the third person who now accompanied them. 
Rat-de-Cave gave an address which the priest did not 
hear, and the carriage drove off. No one spoke, and the 
abbe read his breviary in a low voice. After a while 
he lost all count of the various streets and places through 
which they passed. However the carriage stopped with 
a jerk, and aroused Sulpice from the drowsiness which 
had begun to steal over him. He felt somewhat rested, 
and in any case, the idea of a duty to be performed was 
new life to him. Rat-de-Cave paid and dismissed the 
driver. Fleur d’Echafaud drew back the bolt from a 
wretched looking door, and led the way into an alley, the 
priest following closely. The door closed behind them 
with a bang, and Rat-de-Cave lit a candle in a copper 
^ candlestick, which seemed to have been left in readiness. 
They went upstairs; the house was squalid and evidently 
inhabited by very poor people. On they went to the very 
highest story; Rat-de-Cave put his key into one of the 
doors and opened it. The room into which Sulpice was 
now ushered was so large that the feeble light of a candle 
at the far end by no means dispelled its gloom. The 
priest indistinctly perceived a bed in one corner sur- 
rounded by dark curtains. 

“ I suppose we will find the sick person here,” he said 
addressing Fleur d’Echafaud. 

That worthy made no reply; but, when Rat-de-Cave 
had locked the door, and put the key in his pocket, he 
said, approaching the priest, his face still concealed by 
the muffler, 

“ I told you the salvation of a soul was at stake, but I 
did not say anything about a sick person.” 


THE SECRET OF GOD. 


63 


“A sinner is a sick person,” said the priest gently, 

at least to us spiritual physicians. But in what way 
do you require my ministry.?” 

“ I want you to hear my confession.” 

“Here, and at this time of night?” cried the priest in 
astonishment. 

“Here, this very moment,” replied Rat-de-Cave. 

“ But you seem in good health, my friend,” objected 
the priest, “ and I do not see any necessity for administer- 
ing the sacraments in this room. Why do you not come 
to me to-morrow, at the church?” 

“Are you then to judge the hour when God sees fit to 
touch hearts?” asked the other. 

“Far from it,” replied Sulpice. “I spoke as I did be- 
cause of my reverence for holy things. I prefer, except 
in urgent cases, to administer the sacraments in the 
sanctuary.” 

The abbe really spoke from a conscientious motive, 
but he was moreover influenced unawares by that dark 
presentiment of evil which sometimes comes lo us upon 
the eve of a terrible affliction. He overcame a sense of 
doubt and fear, in view of the duty he had to perform, 
and said to Rat-de-Cave, 

“ I am ready to hear your confession.” 

The wretch made a sign to his companion to with- 
draw as far as possible, and brought a chair for the 
priest. 

“ We are face to face now, as man to man,” said he. 
“ One of us possesses a mysterious power, to which the 
other appeals. Whatever I say to the man he is free to 
repeat. When does the offlce of priest begin, and what 
is the precise moment at which he is obliged to listen 
without Kemembering or at least without making any 
use whatsoever of the knowledge so gained.?” 

“Kneel down,” said the priest solemnly, “and make 
the sign of the cross.” 


64 


IDOLS. 


Rat-de-Cave did as instructed. 

“Recite the Confiteor," said the priest. 

Rat-de-Cave dimly remembered such a prayer; he 
mumbled it hastily, and the abbe Sulpice continued, 

“ It now remains for you to say, ^Father, bless me, for 
I have sinned.’ ” 

Rat-de-Cave shuddered; he was trembling in every 
limb, but he repeated the words in a harsh, guttural 
voice. 

“ Now,” said the priest in a tone of sweetness and 
tenderness, “now you may speak, for in this solemn 
moment it is no longer the man who hears you, it is 
Christ, your Judge and mine. Confess the sins which 
weigh upon your heart; relieve your conscience of its 
burden. When I part from you I will have forgotten 
them; you will be my brother, and you can count upon 
my silence, as I count upon the eternity of my God.” 

Once more the words of the priest touched the hard- 
ened wretch, but he overcame the momentary weakness, 
and proceeded hastily: 

“Father, at your feet, before God, under the awful 
seal of confession, which it would be sacrilege to violate, 
I confess that I have this night stolen a hundred thousand 
francs.” 

“Ah !” said the priest, “you must make restitution.” 

“That is not all,” said Rat-de-Cave; “the owner of 
the money hearing a noise came in, I struck him — ” 

“ Did you kill him ?” cried the priest. 

“ I killed him,” answered Rat-de-Cave. 

“ Have mercy on that soul, O God, my God!” cried the 
priest; “receive, O Lord, his victim into thy bosom! Be 
merciful unto him, hurried so cruelly into eternity; have 
pity on him, have pity on him !” 

His voice was choked with emotion, but Rat-de-Cave 
continued: 


THE SECRET OF GOD. 65 

“ There is more which I must tell,” he said, in a hoarse, 
unnatural voice. 

What more, my God! what more?” said the priest. 

“ The name of the murdered man,” said the other. 

“ His name then, if you so desire,” said the priest. 

“Antoine Pomereul,” replied the murderer. 

Utterly stricken by the blow, the priest rose, a mist 
floated before his eyes, he stretched out his arms in the 
form of a cross, and fell face downwards to the ground. 
Rat-de-Cave stood by and watched him, but the priest, 
remembering the agony of his Saviour, silently endured, 
gave no sign. He thought upon another day, when pros- 
trate thus, he had renounced the world, its passions, its 
desires, its ambition; a day when he had died that he might 
live, in short the day upon which he had taken his vows. 
And now the whole extent of his duty was before him; 
the struggle between the son and the priest. He knew 
that the murderer of his father stood by him, laden with 
the spoils, reddened with the victim’s blood, and he, the 
priest, had no right to remember even what had passed, 
when once he had set foot across the threshold of that 
house. He might not bring the criminal to justice, 
though the dearest interests of society demanded that it 
should be done. A w'retch acting a horrible and sacri- 
legious comedy, in addition to that terrible tragedy, had 
taken refuge under the secret of the confessional, and 
could now rest in impunity. The priest must be deaf 
to justice, he must forget the very voice of that man, 
and if before others he met him face to face, must feign 
forgetfulness. For an hour he lay in a sort of uncon- 
sciousness, which did not bring him ease from pain. 
Ever and anon he murmured, 

“ Thy will, not mine, be done.” 

Meanwhile Fleur d’Echafaud, throwing himself upon 
the bed, went to sleep. Rat-de-Cave sat upon the edge 


66 


IDOLS. 


of the table, waiting till Sulpice should find strength 
to rise. By an effort the abbe at length raised himself 
upon his knees, and holding by the chimney-piece, got 
upon his feet. 

Rat-de-Cave, now no longer afraid of recognition from 
the priest, had thrown aside his handkerchief and great- 
coat. He wore a blue blouse open at the neck, so that 
the cruel and even brutal expression of his face was 
revealed in all its repulsiveness. Then for the first time 
the abbe saw his face. He thought he was mistaken, 
made a step forward and stopped. 

“Yes, it is I,*’ said the wretch; “I, Jean Machu, who 
once asked you for a night’s lodging somewhere in the 
neighborhood of Brest.” 

“Ah!” said the priest; “is this how you have kept the 
promise made to me that stormy night ? I saved you by 
my silence, and I find you now the murderer of my 
father.” 

The abbe seemed to have somewhat recovered his 
strength; he continued: 

“Well, whatever you have done, or whatever has come 
to my knowledge, I am now sworn to secrecy, so let me 
go.” 

“Not yet,” said Rat-de-Cave. 

“ Why add such unnecessary cruelty to your crimes ?” 
said the priest; “let me go home. The victim may be 
still alive, do you hear, he may be still alive; in the hurry 
of the moment you may have mistaken unconsciousness 
for death. Let me go, Jean Machu, my father’s dying 
voice seems to call me.” 

“ He is dead beyond ail doubt,” said Rat-de-Cave. 

“ Be it so then,” cried the priest, in a voice full of 
anguish. “ If the soul has indeed left that beloved form, 
my place is at its side, if not to save him, at least to keep 
my vigil near his corpse. I am a priest; I will be silent, 


THE SECRET OF GOD. 


67 

but I am a man, and I have met with a terrible affliction. 
You have robbed me of what I held dearest upon earth, 
and I implore you, for wretch though you be, you had a 
father, a mother, some one whom you loved. Once you 
were good perhaps; ah, Jean Machu, let me go !” 

“I cannot,” said Rat-de-Cave, “and even if I were 
willing, my comrade would not be.” 

The priest clasped his hands once more in supplica- 
tion. Vain appeal; he saw and felt it. Then by one 
of those miracles of zeal, known to the hearts of apostles, 
the priest dried his tears, and bade his sorrow be silent. 

“Jean Machu,” he said, “if I must pass the hours of 
this terrible night with you, I may at least spend them 
as I will ?” The other bent his head in token of assent. 

“ I will speak to you, then, of the past,” said Sulpice, 
“ not to reproach you, but as one may recall old 
memories to another. Seven years ago I made a pil- 
grimage to Brittany; I remained for some time after 
recruiting my strength in a poor hut upon the sea-shore, 
and also preparing some work for the following winter. 
One night such a storm was raging as is sometimes seen 
upon the coast of Armorica, with its lofty crags and 
tremendous waves. It was very late; I was still writing, 
when a loud knock came to the door. I opened it; a 
man half clad and in miserably thin garments rushed 
into the cabin dripping wet, slammed the door, and 
stood against it, as if afraid of being driven out again 
into the storm. A furious gale was blowing; the peals 
of thunder were loud and prolonged; the waves dashed 
fiercely against the rocks and were hurled back with 
terrific clamor. It was a fearful night.” 

Jean Machu clasped his hands and rested them upon 
his knees. 

“The man,” continued the priest, “who then came 
into the cabin was exhausted; I offered him wine, I 


68 


IDOLS. 


gave him dry clothing, and my own bed in which to 
sleep. All at once I heard a sound rising, as it were, 
above the warring elements. I recognized the noise. 
* It is cannon,’ I said, ‘ it certainly is cannon.’ Trembling 
in every limb, and shuddering violently, the stranger 
listened. He too knew the signal, a convict had escaped 
from the galleys. They were in pursuit of him. I 
looked at him, terror was in his face, his lips trembled, he 
sank upon his knees, and cried out to me in his distress, 

^ You can save me ! ’ I was placed between society, which 
on the one hand demanded that he should be given up, 
and a poor creature who, on the other, cried to me for 
mercy. I listened to that voice. I kept the guest whom 
Providence had sent me under my roof, and cared for 
him. And while he slept, I wrote a paraphrase upon 
the words of Scripture, ‘ There is more joy in Heaven 
over one sinner who repents, than for ninety-nine just.’ 

I went to the village next morning, procured some 
clothing for him from a fisherman, and at nightfall Jean 
Machu, the escaped convict, left my house by stealth. 
Before departing, he had sworn to lead an honest life, nor 
was he without the means of so doing; for, besides my 
little savings, I gave him a letter of recommendation to 
a relative of mine who had large fisheries in Brittany, 
and who would have employed him at my request. Have 
I told the truth ?” 

“ You have,” answered Rat-de-Cave. 

“ Now I meet him again,” continued the priest, “not 
as then, protesting his innocence of the petty theft with 
which he was charged, but avowedly laden with an hon- 
est man’s gold, and stained with his blood !” 

“ Ah!” cried Jean Machfi, “ the tiger will remain a tiger, 
in spite of the gentleness of the lamb.” 

“ What do you know of it ?” cried the priest. “ In the 
name of that God who sees and hears us, I declare and 


THE SECRET OF GOD. 


69 


maintain the contrary. Sooner or later the gentleness of 
the lamb triumphs over the cowardly ferocity of the 
tiger. A drop of water suffices to penetrate rock; so, 
too, a tear suffices to melt the heart of a criminal. You 
called me hither, and I came. You said, ‘ Here is a soul 
to be saved,’ and I demand that soul of you. You have 
marred my earthly happiness; I am eager to secure your 
eternal welfare. You have deprived me of a father; let 
me restore your God to you.” 

Rat-de-Cave bent forward, as if scarce believing the 
testimony of his senses. 

“ A moment ago,” continued the priest, “ you knelt be- 
fore me, in a sacrilegious travesty of a sacred and mys- 
terious rite; you claimed the privileges of a repentant 
sinner for one hardened in the ways of iniquity. This 
pardon I freely promised you; I blessed you that you 
might have strength to open your heart to me. Kneel 
to me again, I implore you, not to secure my silence, 
which is already yours, but to cry out from the depths 
of your heart, and not, as before, from the lips alone, 
‘ Father, I have sinned;’ to bend your head beneath the 
hand of the priest, who will absolve you ‘in the name of 
the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.’ ” 

So noble and so lofty were the words and gestures of 
the priest, and such was the authority with which he 
spoke, that Jean Machii felt his heart fail him. He could 
not understand the source whence the Abbe Sulpiee 
drew his magnanimity and his eloquence, but he was 
overcome by them. 

At last he stammered, 

“ But I have robbed your father — robbed you !” 

“ And you do not wish to lose the price of your crime ? 
Be it so. I freely give you the hundred thousand francs 
you have stolen to-night. They will be deducted from 
my share of the inheritance.” 


70 


IDOLS. 


** You will give them to me freely and without re- 
proach, as if I had earned them honestly ?” asked Rat-de- 
Cave in amazement. 

“ Henceforth they are your own,” said the priest; “ I 
repeat that I freely give them to you. If poverty has 
led you to crime, you are now forever safe from want. 
But what you have already confessed to me, with mock- 
ery so cruel, repeat now, I beseech you, in sincerity. Let 
my grief and m'y tears supply for your imperfect repent- 
ance; but at least reflect what an awful deed it^is to take 
a human life, to send a fellow-creature, full of life and 
happiness, out of the world; to make orphans; to bring 
mourning and misery to a happy home. See, I am 
weeping ; will you look on with dry eyes ? I have 
compassion on your soul; will you not give a thought to 
its salvation ? My friend, my brother, by the God who 
died on the cross, I entreat you to confess your sins and 
ask pardon for them.” 

“Oh, come, come!” cried a mocking voice from the 
other end of the room; “ next thing you will be crying 
like a woman, Rat-de-Cave.” 

It was Fleur d’Echafaud who spoke. He had been 
awake for some time, and listening to the interview be- 
tween Jean Machu and the priest. 

“ Hold up now, old boy,” he continued, still address- 
ing his companion; “you are on dangerous ground. As 
for you, my fine abbe, I do full justice to your eloquence, 
and if ever the Sorbonne is threatened I would back you 
against all odds to set it right again. Just now, though, 
your oratorv is unseasonable. It is all very fine to have 
saved that brute, Rat-de-Cave, and to forget what he 
has told you is still better; but that he should be so 
much affected by your preaching as to go to confession — 
I say, no, by Jupiter ! He is not alone in this affair, and 
must share with me.” 


THE SECRET OF GOD. 


71 


If that is all — ” began the priest, eagerly. 

“ Enough disinterestedness for one day,” interrupted 
Fleur d’Echafaud; “it is almost sunrise. We must get 
out of here, but we will not take you home just yet. I 
will call a carriage; you will get in with Rat-de-Cave, 
and, as I know all the roads, I will drive. We will go 
about for four hours or so, and at eight o’clock I will 
bring you back to Paris. Meantime you need not try 
to soften me; it is useless. Like green wood, I do not 
kindle.” 

This man’s intervention had quickly dispelled the mo- 
mentary impression made upon Rat-de-Cave by the words 
of the priest, so that, when Fleur d’Echafaud had gone 
for a carriage, and they were alone together, Sulpice 
found him once more as hard and cold as marble. See- 
ing his efforts unavailing, the abbe knelt down in a cor- 
ner of the room and began to pray. 

The sound of carriage-wheels told Rat-de-Cave of his 
comrade’s return. 

He went over and touched the priest on the shoulder, 
saying, “Come.” 

They went down the dark stairs together, and the 
priest, who could admit of no compromise with his con- 
science, was purposely as unobservant as possible, fearing 
to see anything which might make him remember the 
place; and once out in the street, he glanced neither at 
the house nor at its number. Without a word of re- 
monstrance, or an attempt at resistance, he got into the 
carriage, which Fleur d’Echafaud was to drive. 

Fleur d’Echafaud, unlike his companion, had never 
permitted the priest to see his face. He kept his hat 
drawn down over his eyes, and was so disguised that it 
would be impossible to recognize him again. They 
drove about for four hours, sometimes passing over hard 
pavements, or macadamized roads, going in and out 


72 


IDOLS. 


among the suburbs, or round and round in a circle, that 
the abbe might have a confused idea of the way by 
which they had come, and in all probability be unable to 
remember it. 

When day broke, Rat-de-Cave pulled down the win- 
dow-blinds. Meanwhile the priest prayed on in a low 
voice, waiting till this last act in the drama should be 
accomplished. 

At eight by his watch, Fleur d’Echafaud was driving 
along by the Palais Royal. He pursued his way as far 
as the Chaussee d’Antin. Stopping at the most deserted 
side of the new opera-house, he opened the carriage- 
door, and said to the priest, 

Get out now; you are almost at home.” 

Sulpice got out. 

“ Adieu,” said Rat-de-Cave in a husky voice. 

“ Au revoir,” said the abbe, in a low and feeble one. 

Tottering, so that he was obliged to lean against a 
wall for support, the priest went home. 

“ It is queer,” said Rat-de-Cave, addressing his com- 
panion; “we are strong, of course, but there goes one 
who is stronger than either of us.” 


THE ACCUSATION. 


73 


CHAPTER VI. 

The Accusation. 

The Abbe Sulpice caught a glimpse of his father’s 
house. A great crowd had collected about it. The 
Chaussee d’Antin in that vicinity was thronged with 
people. The fatal news of a crime soon spreads. 

At six o’clock that morning M. Pomereul’s man had 
come down with duster and broom, to do his master’s 
study as usual. On the threshold he was arrested by a 
terrible spectacle. 

Stretched upon the ground, with distorted features and 
protruding eyes, lay M. Pomereul, in all the rigidity of 
death. Clots of blood stained his clothing and his face. 
Near him the man heard a feeble moaning. It was Lipp- 
Lapp pressing his gaping wound with his hand, drag- 
ging himself feebly towards his master, and weeping 
after his fashion. Baptiste’s first thought was to see 
if there was any life in the body. Ascertaining the 
contrary, he called the butler, the concierge, and Sabine’s 
maid. 

“A dreadful deed has been done,” he cried; “M. 
Pomereul was murdered last night. Let us keep Mile. 
Sabine from seeing this horrible sight. The police must 
be notified, and the deposition taken before M. Xavier 
awakes.” 

The butler went for the magistrate and for a doctor. 
In about an hour the police commissioners were upon 
the scene. The examining magistrate installed himself 
in the study, and dictated to his secretary an official 
report of the position in which the body was found. The 
evidence of theft was manifest. The murderer had 


74 


IDOLS. 


empiied the safe, and probably had not thought of 
murder, till M. Pomereul’s interference had decided his 
fate. This first duty accomplished, the doctor made his 
statement. 

“Sir,’' said he, addressing the magistrate, “from the 
traces of blood on the face and clothing of the deceased, 
I was led to believe that he had received a wound from 
some blunt instrument which had fractured a portion of 
the skull. But having washed away the blood, I can 
discover no wound, except a mere scratch; the tumefac- 
tion of the face, and the finger marks upon the neck, are 
indisputable proofs that became to his death by strangu- 
lation.” 

“ But the blood ?” 

“ Is that of the ape, who has received two wounds, 
inflicted by a three-sided dagger; one in the shoulder 
and one in the breast.” 

“What is your conclusion, doctor?” 

“ I will suppose the occurrence to have been as follows: 
M. Pomereul discovers the burglar and rushes upon him. 
The burglar seized M. Pomereul by the throat, Lipp-Lapp 
interfered, anxious to save his master, and the poor 
brute was rewarded for his humanity and intelligence 
by these two wounds. The murderer fled, Lipp-Lapp, 
pressing his hand to his wound, dragged himself towards 
his master. He put his hand upon the body, and upon 
the head, and that is how we find the bloody marks 
upon clothing and face.” 

“ Then will you write out your report, doctor?” 

“ Yes, and I have dressed Lipp-Lapp’s wound,” said 
the physician. “ I am of those who believe that the 
instinct of brutes is often wonderfully illustrated. No 
clue must be lost in such a case as this. One thing 
strikes me forcibly.” 

“ What ?” asked the magistrate. 


THE ACCUSATION. 75 

‘‘This," answered the doctor, placing a tuft of red 
hair covered with blood before the magistrate. 

“What is it?” 

“ It is hair. A tuft of fiery red hair, which Lipp-Lapp 
held in his clenched fingers. In his extreme suffering 
he held it fast, and pressing the hand which contained it 
to his breast, dyed it a deeper red in his own blood. 
Staunching the wound with it may have saved the 
brute’s life.” 

The piece of hair was consequently sealed and put 
aside, wi^ anything else that could be used in evidence. 
The magistrate, out of consideration for the children of 
the deceased, would not permit them to be called till the 
examination was over. Both Sabine and Xavier were 
still asleep, and the Abbe Sulpice had not yet returned as 
it was only seven o’clock. The examination of the ser- 
vants was very brief. None of them knew anything of 
the crime, and could therefore throw no light on the 
subject. The concierge was the only one who could give 
any information. 

But the fact was that when Rat-de-Cave and Fleur 
d’Echafaud had rung the bell, that functionary, sleeping 
profoundly at his post, dimly remembered to have heard 
the abbe’s name pronounced. 

His replies to the questions put him were as follows: 
The bell rang. I answered. A voice asked for the Abbe 
Pomereul. I supposed he was in and said. Go up. 
Almost immediately after the abbe came to the door. 
He must have met the men who had asked for him on 
the stairs, for they all went out together. 

“ Is the Abbe Pomereul in ?” asked the magistrate. 

“No, sir.” 

“You will let us know when he comes. You can 
retire.” 

“ Does it not seem to you,” said the other magistrate, 


76 


IDOLS. 


that the proper person to inform Mile. Pomereul 
and her brother of the terrible affliction which has be- 
fallen them is the Abbe Sulpice ? His sacred character 
of priest will enable him to break it to them as we could 
not do. He will console them; he will bid them raise 
their eyes to Heaven, instead of directing them to earth.” 

The other reflected a moment, then said: 

“ It will be more humane, and besides it will be easier 
for us.” 

Baptiste was summoned. Like the other servants, he 
slept on the fourth floor of the house, and was utterly 
ignorant of all details of the terrible drama which had 
been enacted that fatal night. His deposition was taken, 
and the magistrate said: 

“ You have been a long time in the service of the family ? 
Your young master, the abbe, will soon be in. Tell him 
all, and let him prepare his brother and sister to obey 
our summons.” 

The magistrate sat down at the desk upon which they 
had placed: 

ist. The bunch of keys belonging to the murdered man. 

2d. The tuft of bloody hair found in Lipp-Lapp’s hand. 

3d. A piece of fine linen, evidently torn in the struggle, 
and which had been found near the door of the safe. 

The examining magistrate, M. Gaubert, was somewhere 
about fifty years of age, tall and sparely built, with a 
high broad forehead, a bald head, a slender nose with 
dilating nostrils, thin, bloodless lips, and pale face. His 
eyes were bright and unusually penetrating, and their 
expression was so searching that it seemed to read one’s 
very soul. M. Gaubert was indefatigable in the discharge 
of his professional duties, wherein he displayed remarka- 
ble judgment and energy. The strictest integrity charac- 
terized his decisions. Nothing could either influence or 
soften them. But it was scarcely his fault that this con- 


THE ACCUSATION. 


77 


stant contact with criminals had left him but little con- 
fidence in his fellows. 

The other magistrate or police commissioner, M, Obry, 
was a totally different person. Though still young he was 
already eminent in his profession, and endowed with a clear 
head and a certain aptitude for literature. He saw fewer 
criminals than his brother magistrate and more unfortu- 
nates. Under the brazen shield of a magistrate he still 
kept a loving heart and one susceptible of great tender- 
ness. 

Whilst these gentlemen were in the discharge of their 
duties Sulpice Pomereul came staggering home. We 
have said that he had observed from afar the crowd 
which had gathered round the house. When they rec- 
ognized the young priest, the groups of curious men and 
women made way for him with mingled pity and rever- 
ence. 

“Ah, how dreadful for him !” cried one; “he loved his 
father so much.” 

“The Abbe Sulpice is a saint,” cried another; “why 
has God stricken him so cruelly?” 

“To make him even more perfect,” said still another. 

“ Look how pale he is. He has come no doubt from 
the bedside of the dying, and O my God ! think of what 
is before him.” 

Whilst these questions and exclamations were passing 
amongst the eager crowd, Sulpice went up the steps; he 
grasped the balustrade; he tottered. He rang the bell 
with feverish agitation. Baptiste opened the door. 
Scarcely had he entered the hall, when the good old ser- 
vant fell sobbing at his feet. 

“ My master, my dear young master,” cried he, “ have 
courage.” 

“ My father?” stammered Sulpice. 

“ Come, come and see him, come and pray.” 


78 


IDOLS. 


Baptiste led or almost dragged the young priest into 
his father’s room. 

The body of the victim lay on the bed; a reverent hand 
had covered the swollen face with a handkerchief. Sul- 
pice raised the cloth and looked. 

With clasped hands and breaking heart he prostrated 
himself beside the bed. At first only sobs, then prayer 
rose slowly from his heart to his lips, and gradually a 
sort of calm succeeded the storm of his terrible anguish. 
When Sulpice felt himself strong enough to meet the 
others, he said to Baptiste, 

“ Sabine ?” 

“ Mile. Sabine has not appeared yet. 

A moment after Sulpice was in his sister’s room. The 
young girl’s apartments, separated from her father’s by 
a parlor, dining-room, and boudoir, were still so far dis- 
tant that she had not heard any noise, either during the 
night, nor in the early morning hours. Besides there was 
often so much noise in the house, that a few comers or 
goers more or less never disturbed her. She always re- 
mained in her own rooms till the breakfast hour, which 
was ten o’clock. At that time she went down and found 
her father in the dining-room. Xavier sometimes joined 
them, but rarely; and as for Sulpice, the monastic fru- 
gality of his life forbade him to partake of this first meal. 
When no duties interfered, he usually came down after 
breakfast for a half hour’s chat with his father and Sa- 
bine. Until breakfast time, Sabine usually occupied her- 
self with some sewing or fancy work. She had just 
finished dressing when Sulpice came in. Sabine uttered 
a cry, for she saw the traces of tears on his face. 

“ Ah ! What has happened ?” she cried. 

Then remembering what her brother had said the night 
before, she fixed terror-stricken eyes upon Sulpice, saying 
simply, 


THE ACCUSATION. 


79 


Xavier?” 

He knows nothing of it as yet,” answered Sulpice. 

“You are weeping. Xavier knows nothing — then 
something has happened, and in this house. Something ’ 
but what ? Ah,” said she, with a terrible cry of an- 
guish, “ my father !” 

“ My sister ! Sabine, my dearest Sabine,” cried Sulpice, 
supporting her half-fainting form. “ God is the master. 
He has given, and has taken away.” 

“Taken away,” cried she, “taken away, and suddenly 
like this, without any warning sickness, without any 
alternatives of hope and fear to prepare us for the worst ! 
I am not so near to God as you, Sulpice. I cannot be 
resigned like you. It cannot be. It is a trance, but not 
death, no, not death. The doctors are mad, they do not 
know what they are saying. Oh, think what mistakes 
they make e.very day; they say a man is'dead, and he 
comes to life in a few hours. Their remedies are some- 
times powerless. I will take him in my arms, and with 
my tears and caresses bring him back to life. And if a 
miracle be necessary, you are a saint, Sulpice, my brother; 
you will ask God, and He will work a miracle.” 

“ No,” said the priest, in a voice which betrayed the 
terrible anguish of his soul. “ We cannot ask for a 
miracle; it would be tempting God. No; our father 
will never wake again, except with our Father who is in 
Heaven. When I have given up hope, Sabine, be assured 
there is none.” 

“No hope?” cried she; “and you say this ? But of 
what did he die ? Was he stricken by a thunderbolt ?” 

“ The thunderbolt which often falls upon unsuspecting 
victims; a crime — 

“ My father murdered !” cried Sabine — and oh, how 
terrible was the horror of her voice. 

“ Murdered,” said Sulpice, in a low voice. 


8o 


IDOLS. 


✓ 

“ But why, why ? He was so good ! He had no ene 
mies. Who could have done it ?” 

“ That, my poor, heart-broken Sabine, jus'tice is seek- 
ing to discover,” said Sulpice, “ and you will presently be 
called upon to aid it in its work.” 

“ To aid it !” said she, bewildered. “ But what do I 
know ? I was asleep. I was sleeping while my father 
was being murdered. I was sleeping, and perhaps he 
was calling me ! Why did not a secret presentiment 
warn me? I was sleeping — I who pretended to love 
him !” 

“ Do not reproach yourself, Sabine. Whilst this mon- 
strous deed was being done I was far away, and Xavier 
did not hear.” 

Does Xavier know ?” asked Sabine. 

Not yet,” answered Sulpice. “ I still have the second 
part of my task to accomplish. Help me, Sabine. My 
burden is heavy; I almost sink under its weight. The 
daughter, indeed, is on the verge of despair; but the 
Christian should arise. Keep the dignity of your sor- 
row. Suffer and pray, but no tears or outburst of grief, 
if you can help it. Promise me that, for the present at 
least, you will not ask to see our father’s body; later, 
when the magistrates have left the house, we will keep 
watch beside him — keep our vigil together. Will you give 
me your word ?” 

“ I give it, Sulpice,” she said. ‘‘ Go to Xavier, go !” 

Sabine sank down upon her prie-dieu^ and kissed the 
feet of the crucifix, her tears streaming upon it. 

Lord,” said Sulpice, “ comfort her soul and strength- 
en mine.” 

When the priest was on his way to his brother’s room, 
he was told that the magistrates desired his presence. 
The priest collected all his strength: the strength of his 
heart that he might not fail; of his mind that he might 


THE ACCUSATION. 8 1 

not betray, by word or sign, the secret which was the 
secret of God. 

Just as he was entering his father’s room, where the 
magistrates were in waiting, Xavier, coming suddenly 
to his door, questioned Baptiste as to what was going 
on. 

“ Sir,” said the presiding magistrate, addressing Sul- 
pice in a tone of deep respect, “ will you take a seat } I 
beg your pardon for having to discharge so unpleasant a 
duty at such a time; but justice cannot wait.” 

“ I am ready to ansv/er your questions, sir,” said the 
priest. 

M. Gaubert made a sign to his secretary, who pre- 
pared to take down the deposition. 

“You went out early yesterday evening?” 

“ About eight o’clock, sir. I was sent for on a sick 
call.” 

“ You came in after that ?” 

“ A little before half past twelve. As I went up stairs 
I met two men coming down, and one of them said to 
me, ‘We need your ministry; the salvation of a soul is 
at stake.’ I went whither I was summoned; I fulfilled 
my task, and refurning — ” 

“ You have nothing more to make known to the law ?” 

“ Nothing more.” 

“ You can retire. Mile. PomereuTs testimony is also 
necessary. We are now awaiting her.” 

“ I will go for her,” said Sulpice. 

After a moment’s pause, Sabine, supported by her 
brother, entered the room. The expression of her face 
was pitiable. It was plainly to ' be seen that, trying to 
follow the example of her brother, she was making heroic 
efforts to control her grief. 

“ Mademoiselle,” said the judge, “ you were alone last 
night with your father on this first floor of the house?’* 


82 


IDOLS. 


‘‘Alone? I am not sure,” she said. “My brother 
Xavier may have been in the house.” 

“ I thought your brother spent his evenings, and, usu- 
ally, his nights, at the club ?” said the magistrate. 

“Usually, yes,” she said; “but as for that, he will tell 
you himself.” 

“ You heard no unusual noise ?” 

“ No, sir. I left my poor father at half past nine. I 
left him there sitting where you are. I went to my room. 
For about an hour I was writing in my journal little 
incidents of our domestic life, as I do every day. I 
went to bed. This morning Sulpice came and told me 
all.” 

“ To your knowledge, had M. Pomereul any ene* 
mies ?” 

“ Some people may have been ungrateful to him, but 
he had no enemies,” she answered. 

“Then there is nothing that occurs to your memory? 
No light flashes upon your mind? There was no one 
about him who entertained any ill feeling towards him 
on account of having been refused a favor, or the like ?” 

“ My father never refused a favor which it was in his 
power to grant. I know that the day before yesterday 
his friend, M. Andre Nicois, asked him for a hundred 
thousand francs before the end of the month. My father 
sent for that amount. People always found him ready 
to oblige, or to give in charity.” 

“You can retire. Mademoiselle,” said the magistrate. 
“Should it be necessary to question you further, you will 
hold yourself in readiness.” 

Sabine slowly left the room. As she passed through 
the hall, a storm of passionate grief reached her ears. 
Xavier, to whom Baptiste had told the whole truth, had, 
in spite of all the efforts of the faithful servant, rushed 
into the chamber of death. Throwing himself upon his 


THE ACCUSATION. 


83 

father’s corpse, he strained it to his breast, and spoke to 
it with the eloquence of despair. He impiored it to 
answer him, he addressed vain prayers and supplications 
to it, the word pardon came again and again to his lips, 
and the excess of his grief bordered on frenzy. Vainly 
did Baptiste.repeat that the magistrates awaited him. He 
could not be torn from the place. What could the law 
do ? Could it with all its idle forms restore his father.^* 
Justice could do its work later, but only a few hours re- 
mained in which he could clasp the dear dead form in 
his arms, that form which another and more inexorable 
law must soon take from him. 

Baptiste went to the magistrates and told them how 
useless were all his efforts. M. Gaubert rose. 

‘‘Let us go there,” he said, “and question him where 
he is.” 

, They went thither and stopped on the threshold. 
Terrible was the spectacle that met their eyes: The 
disfigured corpse and the young man half mad with 
grief; it was a sight to touch the hardest heart. 

How terrible his grief is,” said M. Obry. 

“Somewhat too demonstrative,” said M. Gaubert. 

“Let us for humanity’s sake leave him time to recover 
himself,” said M. Obry. 

Xavier held one of his father’s stiffened hands, and 
thus addressed the rigid clay: 

“Father,” said he, “is all over? You will never look 
at me again, your lips will never more call your son, you 
are lost to me, lost irrevocably and beyond appeal, lost, 
mute, dead. It is horrible, horrible, and when your eyes 
last met mine it was in anger, and your lips, instead of 
affectionate words, spoke but to drive rqe from you, al- 
most cursed me.” 

M. Obry would have approached Xavier, but his com- 
panion stopped him. 


84 


IDOLS. 


“Listen,” said he, authoritatively, “listen.” 

“Ah! I have been wicked and ungrateful; I repaid 
your goodness by causing you grief. I responded to your 
tenderness by indifference. My faults embittered your 
life, and my crime — ” 

Xavier stopped, for convulsive sobs choked his utter- 
ance. M. Gaubert waited till this storm of grief had 
passed, pressing his companion’s hand significantly. 
Xavier continued: 

“ For money, that cursed money which I spent in 
folly or debauch I embittered your life. I needed money 
for my suppers and my horses. I needed it for gam- 
bling, gambling. Pardon, pardon, father, I implore 
you, pardon, pardon. Can you never let me know from 
that other world that you have forgotten everything, 
even — ? I am indeed lost, forever accursed — ” 

M. Gaubert whispered to his friend, 

“ Let us retire quietly.” 

When they had returned to the study, M. Gaubert 
rang the bell. Baptiste appeared. 

“ I wish to put some further questions to Mile. Pome- 
reul. Ask her to come here.” 

When Baptiste had gone M. Gaubert said: 

“You see, M. Obry, our task is being simplified. It 
seems to me — ” 

“You suspect — ” 

“What do you think yourself?” 

“I ? Nothing, nothing, I swear to you.” 

“You deceive yourself. The same thought which oc- 
curred to me a moment ago also flashed upon your 
mind.” 

“It is impossible,” cried Obry. 

“ Everything is possible,” said the other; “you are still 
young, but you will become in time as skeptical as I am.” 

Sabine came in, and the conversation ceased. 


THE ACCUSATION. 


85 


** Mademoiselle,” said M. Gaubert, “in such a matter 
as this everything tends to enlighten a court of justice. 
We must have a perfect knowledge of this household 
and its habits to guide us in our researches. Do not 
have any fear, conceal nothing from us. Your duty is 
to tell the whole truth, you should be the first to desire 
the punishment of the guilty.” 

“ My sorrow is too great to think of vengeance,” she 
said. 

“ In what frame of mind was your father when you 
last saw him? Had he not been annoyed in some way?” 

“Yes, he had some slight annoyances, but it did not 
amount to much. My father was so good.” 

“Was it not on account of some money which your 
brother had asked from him?” 

“ It was.” 

“ M. Pomereul refused to furnish him with means 
for his superfluous expenses ?” 

“Yes, but he would have yielded. I offered Xavier 
my jewels and my savings, but he refused, such confi- 
dence had he in my father’s generosity and affection.” 

“ Perhaps, too, the amount he required exceeded the 
resources at your disposal?” 

“ That might be, sir.” 

“ Did you witness any scene of violence between M. 
Pomereul and your brother?” 

Sabine hesitated. 

“Your duty is to speak, mademoiselle,” said the mag- 
istrate almost sternly. 

The young girl raised her tear-dimmed eyes to M. 
Gaubert’s face; he did not heed her distress. M. Obry 
on the contrary cast a look of compassion upon her. 

“ The night before last,” said Sabine, with an effort, 
“ my father had a long conversation with Xavier. I do 
not know what they said, only the sound of their voices 


86 


IDOLS. 


reached me. I was alarmed. Anxious to reconcile them 
I came here. My father seemed angry, Xavier had lost 
all control of himself. Ah! only for that he would never 
have said it. Xavier was wild, extravagant, but never 
wicked.” 

“What did he say, mademoiselle?” 

“He said: ‘You refuse me; then something terrible 
will happen in this house.’ ” 

Sabine could scarce pronounce these last words. The 
effort overcame her, and she fainted. 

M. Obry sprang to her assistance. 

“ It is like putting her to the torture,” cried he. 

“Yes, but the torture has brought out the truth,” said 
M. Gaubert. He summoned Sabine’s maid. 

“ Take your mistress to her room,” said he, “ Dr. 
Arnal is still in the house. He will take care of her.” 

Then he turned to his associate. 

“We must proceed with. this affair,” said he. 

The secretary was sent to bring Xavier from the cham- 
ber of death to the presence of the magistrates, despite 
his resistance. At first Xavier paid no attention to the 
magistrate’s polite request; a more imperative summons 
was necessary. 

When he came into the room his face was livid, his 
clothing disordered, his limbs trembling, his manner full 
of fierce excitement; he refused to sit down; advancing 
to the desk he placed his two hands upon it, and leaning 
forward, said in a strange unnatural voice, addressing M. 
Gaubert, 

“ Could you not leave me to weep for my father ? 
Cannot justice come after the first outburst of filial 
grief ?” 

“ Sir,” said the magistrate in a cold, impassive voice, 
“ the Abbe Pomereul and your sister complied with our 


THE ACCUSATION. 8/ 

demands as representatives of justice; have the goodness 
to imitate them.” 

“ What can I tell you of this crime ?” said he. “ I knew 
nothing, I suspected nothing. This cowardly murder 
must be avenged, and I will help you with all my heart. 
But not now, not now! Oh, leave me in peace to weep 
beside the corpse of him who was my father 1” 

“You loved him very much?” said M. Gaubert. 

“ Ah, yes, I loved him very much.” 

“And yet you gave him a great deal of trouble ?” 

“ I committed faults, serious faults it is true, but their 
memory weighs heavy enough on me now; you need not 
reproach me with them.” 

“You have debts ?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Arising from your extravagant habits, or from losses 
at the gaming table ?” 

“ From both sources.” 

“You have lately, in particular, lost a large sum ?” 

“A day or two ago I lost forty thousand francs.” 

“Lost upon your promise ?” 

“ On my promise.” 

“ And your father refused to pay this debt ?” 

“ He refused.” 

“ Did not his refusal occasion a violent scene between 
you ?” 

“ With which I bitterly reproach myself.” 

“ You went so far as to threaten him ?” 

“No, sir, my grief led me only as far as despair. I 
saw myself dishonored, and I thought — ” 

“ Of commiting a crime?” 

“ Yes,” answered Xavier in a husky voice. 

M. Obry looked at Xavier in amazement. 

M. Gaubert proceeded with the examination. 

“ Your father was a man of regular habits. You knew 


88 


IDOLS. 


he retired early, and you waited till he was asleep to 
enter his apartments. Is it not so ?” 

“ It is so,” cried Xavier, overcome by the recollection. 

“ Taking off your shoes, you stole into the room where 
he was asleep; you took his keys and approached the 
safe to take the sum you required.” 

The young man hid his face in his hands. 

“ It was not surprising that a son should know the 
secret of his father’s safe,” continued M. Gaubert, laying 
an emphasis on each word, and giving them further 
significance by impressive pauses; “you opened the 
safe. It was full of valuables, and ccxitained amongst 
other things the hundred thousand francs intended for 
M. Andre Nicois. The sight of the gold, the bank- 
notes, agitated, fascinated, bewildered you ?” 

“ It is true, O my God : true,” cried Xavier, overcome. 

“You bent down you filled your hands with the gold 
and bank-notes, and laden with your spoils — ” 

Xavier brought hir clenched fist down upon the table. 

“That is not trpe,” he cried, exultantly; “I was 
tempted, I took the keys, I opened the safe, but I did 
not steal; on my soul, I did not steal !” 

He pronounced these words with such sincerity that 
M. Obry was deeply moved. 

M. Gaubert continued in an unmoved tone: 

“You came for that purpose, however?’' 

“It is true, I freely confess it. I said to myself sub- 
stantially, My father’s fortune, or at least a portion of 
it, will revert to me some day. I am only taking what 
will be my own. The thought of his anger was less 
terrible to me than the thought of being disgraced at the 
club. All that evening I encouraged myself with danger- 
ous sophistry. I silenced my conscience and listened to 
my passions. Even the sight of my father sleeping did 
not touch me. But as I was about to take the money 


THE ACCUSATION. 


89 


which I so much needed, when I was about to discharge 
my debt by committing a crime, my terrified eyes fell 
upon the portrait of my good mother, and my courage, 
if it could be called courage, left me abruptly. I saw 
the act which I was about to commit in its true colors, 
and I fled. I fled from myself.” 

“ And yet the money is gone and your father is dead ?” 

“ Then, sir,” cried Xavier, fixing horror-stricken eyes 
upon the magistrate, “ if you accuse me of having stolen 
the money, you also accuse me of having murdered my 
father !” 

“ An hour ago I came to that conclusion,” answered 
M. Gaubert. 

“ I, the murderer of the best of fathers ?” cried Xavier. 

“ The best of fathers to an unnatural son,” replied the 
magistrate. And rising with more than his usual sever- 
ity, he said with all the authority of his office, 

“ You will answer at the bar of justice for the crime of 
parricide.” 

Parricide !” cried Xavier. 

“ Henceforth you are in the hands of the law.” 

Xavier’s eyes dilated with horror, wild thoughts passed 
through his mind, and he fell unconscious into a chair. 


90 


IDOLS. 


CHAPTER VIL 
Heart Trials. 

Whilst the doctor was in attendance upon Xavier, 
who was slowly recovering from the terrible paroxysm 
which had ensued, M. Gaubert and M. Obry were left 
alone in the study. 

The former seemed calm, like a man who had come to 
a foregone conclusion. He sorted his papers, numbered 
and labelled them. M. Obry, on the contrary, seemed 
anxious and nervous. His face changed from white to 
red. At last he got up abruptly and began to pace the 
room. M. Gaubert, raising his eyes, and observing the 
alteration in his companion’s face, asked him kindly, 

“ Are you unwell, M. Obry 

“Yes,” cried M. Obry, in a voice which plainly showed 
his inward emotion. “I am suffering from a malady, 
which I see has passed you by while it tortures me; this 
malady is called doubt.^' 

“Then you doubt this young man’s guilt?” 

“Yes, Ido.” 

“ But can you deny the evidence ?” 

“ I feel a certain conviction to the contrary, an impres- 
sion; I yield to the imperious dictates of my conscience, 
and I have a presentiment, which I am sure does not 
deceive me. This young man’s sorrow is sincere. His 
horror and repugnance when he heard himself accused 
of so terrible a crime were not feigned.” 

“ It was a well-acted farce, I admit,” said the other; 
“but it should not mislead a man of your experience.” 

“ That may be, sir,” said M. Obry; “but there is some- 
thing else.” 


HEART TRIALS. 


91 


“What r 

“ This,” said the other, holding up a tuft of red hair 
covered with Lipp-Lapp’s blood. 

“You understand, however, that very little importance 
can be attached to such a circumstance. • Lipp-Lapp 
comes and goes about the house; he even goes out some- 
times; who can explain the whim of this singular animal ? 
Of course we cannot account for the presence of a tuft 
of hair in the hands of a chimpanzee, but it does not in 
the least influence my conviction. Let us look at the 
matter, M. Obry; let us discuss it, or rather let us lay the 
facts before ourselves. I w'ould not wish the shadow of 
a doubt to be left upon your mind, because I know you, 
and know that it would be torture to you. The luxuri- 
ous habits, the extravagance, the folly, the dissipation of 
Xavier Pomereul are well known. He admits that he is 
heavily in debt, and owes a gambling debt, or debt of 
honor as it is called, of which the amount is forty thousand 
francs, an enormous sum, so enormous that, wealthy as 
the father was, he refused to pay it.’* 

“ I know all that,” said M. Obry. 

“Xavier is bent upon having the money; he begs, im- 
plores, threatens. He threatens, do you understand ? 
His sister heard him; he himself confesses it.” 

“ True.” 

“ His father having refused, the young man shuts him- 
self up in his room, not daring to go to the club till he 
could pay his debt. He seeks some means by which to 
obtain the money, and loses sight of all honor and 
honesty. In the examination made by us a moment 
ago we found upon this young man’s table a penal code, 
marked at the page containing Article 380. That proves 
a premeditated robbery. Then, a letter addressed to M. 
de Monjoux, informing him that the money owed him 
will be at his disposal the following day. That note was 


92 


IDOLS. 


written during the evening. In the son’s mind the hour 
of his crime was fixed; he could commit it fearlessly, in 
the certainty of impunity, the code having taught him 
that in such a case the law is powerless, the authority 
of the head 'of the family being supreme.” 

“The unfortunate boy has admitted all this himself,” 
said M. Obry. 

“ He waited,” continued the other, “ till his father was 
asleep, took the keys from under his pillow, opened the 
safe, was in the act of taking the money, when his father 
stood before him, calling him thief. He grew frenzied; 
he was afraid of his father; he did not want to give up 
the money; a terrible struggle ensued; the son was the 
stronger; the parricide fled. All prudence deserted him. 
He forgot to close the safe, left the piece of his shirt 
upon the ground, and throwing himself upon his bed 
without undressing — horrible to relate ! goes to sleep.” 

“You may be reasoning logically from the premises,” 
said M. Obry. “You have drawn these conclusions 
from proved and admitted facts. Most men would think 
as you do, and yet is it not possible that, as he himself 
says, seized with terror and remorse he fled ? His in- 
tention cannot be here established from the fact. He 
stole the keys and opened the safe, then, horrified at the 
thought of the crime, fled.” 

“ If he fled, who took the hundred thousand francs, and 
who killed M. Pomereul ?” 

“ That is what I do not know, what I cannot guess, 
and that is what remains for us to discover.” 

“The most we can admit is the presence of an accom- 
plice,” said M. Gaubert, “and that may require another 
trial. I believe, sir, that I am as deeply impressed as you 
with the sacredness of my office; my whole life is a proof 
of this; my conviction is unalterable, yet I will use every 
means to throw further light on this terrible affair, which 


HEART TRIALS. 


93 


will stir public opinion to its depths. And if, by your 
efforts, you should discover some proofs in support of 
your presentiment^ I shall be deeply indebted if you will 
communicate them to me.” 

“You authorize me then to pursue my inquiries?” 

“ It is your duty so to do, and mine to urge you there- 
unto.*’ Just then the doctor appeared with Xavier. 

The latter fell into an arm-chair, weak, exhausted, ut- 
terly overcome. 

“ Sir,” said he, addressing M. Gaubert, “ I swear to 
you that I am innocent. I perfectly understand, with 
natural fear and horror, that circumstances are against 
me. And yet, however foolish and dissipated I may have 
been — sufficiently so to give ground for such an accusa- 
tion — I loved my father; ah ! indeed I loved him.” 

“ Had you any accomplices ?” asked M. Gaubert, coldly. 

“Accomplices !” cried Xavier. “ Do you not hear me 
say that I am innocent ?” 

“You must prove your innocence, sir, before the law,” 
said M. Gaubert. “ And now would you like to say good- 
by to your brother and sister ?” 

“ Then you are going to take me — ” 

“To prison,” said the other, briefly. 

“ Oh, I am lost, lost !” cried Xavier. 

In this cry of despair, M. Gaubert saw only an evi- ^ 
dence of a criminal’s hardened conscience overcome at 
last by the evidence against him. It certainly seemed 
that a young man of irreproachable conduct and regular 
habits, accused of a parricide committed under such cir- 
cumstances, would have protested against so horrible an 
accusation with more vigor and eloquence. But the cir- 
cumstance of his intended theft weighed upon Xavier. 
His own admission, Sabine’s testimony, in which that of 
Sulpice seemed to concur, all were against him. Yes, he 
felt that he was lost; his punishment was indeed heavy. 


94 


IDOLS. 


His nature was weakened morally and physically by 
his nightly vigils; his mind, too, prematurely enfeebled, 
lacked the energy which it would have required to sus- 
tain him in so terrible an ordeal. Xavier had no strong, 
living, overmastering plea to offer; he felt weak as a 
woman, helpless as a child. 

“ Sir,” said he, “ I would prefer to spare Sulpice and 
Sabine the pain of such a parting. They will be allowed 
to come and see me ?” 

“ Yes, when the affair is made known to the public.” 

“ Let us go, then — quick ! For humanity’s sake, send 
for a carriage, and, if possible, disperse the crowd out- 
side; I can hear the murmur of it even here.” 

M. Gaubert gave an order to his secretary, who went 
out. Xavier wrote a few lines to his brother, and left the 
letter open on the table. 

While the doctor and Sulpice were still busied with Sa- 
bine, Baptiste, weeping, kissed his young master’s hand, 
and the latter, accompanied by the two magistrates, went 
down stairs. 

M. Obry whispered hastily to Xavier, 

“ Keep up your courage. I will not desert you.” 

The unfortunate boy gave him a grateful look. 

The two carriages had arrived. In one went M. Gau- 
bert and his secretary; in the other, M. Obry and the 
policemen who had charge of Xavier. During the drive 
M. Obry was obliged to keep silence, owing to the pres- 
ence of the policemen; but Xavier knew that he could 
regard him as a friend. 

Whilst Xavier was passing through the first stages of 
the long and sorrowful way which lay before him, Sabine 
was slowly recovering consciousness. The first word 
she uttered was Xavier’s name. Sulpice promised that 
she would see him soon, and went out to ask the magis- 
trates if the three sorrowful orphans could be left tO' 


HEART TRIALS. 95 

gather beside their father’s corpse. It was then the 
priest first learned that Xavier had been arrested by or- 
der of the examining magistrate. At first he could not, 
would not understand. The note left by Xavier told him 
of the horrible accusation which had been made against 
his brother. 

“But he is innocent!” cried he; “he is innocent! I 
will speak to the magistrates, and beg them to give me 
back my brother, my poor brother.” 

Returning to Sabine, he threw his arms round her with 
mournful tenderness, saying, 

“ Pray, oh, pray, Sabine; our trial is harder than I 
thought.” 

Sulpice' went to the jail. He spoke with convincing 
eloquence; he pleaded for Xavier, answering for him — 
soul for soul, honor for honor. Every one showed the 
greatest respect and sympathy for the young priest; but, 
as regarded Xavier, could only give him an evasive answer. 

“Alas! sir,” said the magistrate to whom the priest 
addressed himself; “to save your brother, we must find 
another criminal.” 

“ But then — ” cried Sulpice. 

He did not finish; he knew the real criminal; he had 
seen his face — knew his name. With one word he could 
prove Xavier’s innocence and bring the murderer to jus- 
tice. If his magnanimity had been so great as to pardon 
his father’s murderer, must he then leave his brother 
under so monstrous an accusation ? Did his duty oblige 
him to sacrifice Xavier and leave unpunished the escaped 
felon, Jean Machu ? Was the secret of the confessional 
then so absolute that, placed between the honor and the 
life of his own brother, he, the priest, was obliged to see 
the family dishonored and his brother dying upon the 
scaffold, rather than betray a wretch’s secret ? Would 
it not be different if the thief the man of blood, when he 


96 


IDOLS, 


knelt before the priest, had really repented, and been 
swallowed up, as it were, in the abyss of. divine mercy? 
But Jean Machu had played a sacrilegious farce. Sulpice’s 
power had been used to ensnare him. Was he really 
bound to a man who had made a mockery of the sacra- 
ment, who had used the secrecy imposed upon the priest 
as a weapon to save himself, as he would have been to 
an ordinary and sincerely repentant sinner? 

In one rapid moment Sulpice thus questioned himself. 
His heart beat high, his head seemed burning. A terrible 
struggle was going on in his breast. By one word he 
could save his brother; but by one word he would be- 
come unfaithful to his oath, perjured alike before God 
and men. He wiped the cold sweat from his brow, and 
muttered in a feeble voice, 

“ I am sure of Xavier’s innocence, but I cannot furnish 
any proof of it. Let me at least go and console him.” 

“ In a day or two the secret will be made known, and 
the doors of the prison thrown open to you,” they replied. 

Sulpice getting into a carriage drove back to his home. 
He found Sabine in the chamber of death. The room 
had been arranged by her direction; tapers were burning 
at the four corners of the bed; a silver vase of holy 
water stood at the foot; a crucifix was laid upon the dead 
man’s breast, and the curtains were drawn to conceal the 
face, changed, alas! beyond recognition. The perfume 
of flowers standing in vases about the room mingled 
with the air which had already become close and almost 
stifling. 

Sabine burst out crying when she saw Sulpice, and 
said but one word: 

“ Xavier ?” 

“ I told you, my poor child,” said Sulpice, “ to pray, 
and to be courageous. Let the sister rely upon her 
brother’s words; let the Christian be resigned. .There 


HEART TRIALS. 


97 


are afflictions which surpass human strength, and to sus- 
tain such we must ask our Lord to let us carry the Cross 
with Him. Do not question me, for I cannot answer. 
Do not tell me to act; I am powerless; but God is above 
us, and God knows all !” 

Sabine sobbed aloud. An hour passed thus. The 
young girl was still weeping, and Sulpice begging mercy 
of Heaven, when the door of the room opened noiselessly, 
and Benedict Fougerais, pale and trembling, came in and 
knelt beside the orphans. Adopted on the very evening 
before the murder by M. Pomereul, he came to share in 
the grief of the family. Sabine raised her heavy eyes to 
his for an instant; Sulpice made place for him, but not 
a word was spoken. 

All three remained absorbed in a grief which was deep 
and beyond expression. Ever and anon Sulpice recited 
some psalm, thus pouring the words of faith and trust 
in God into their desolate hearts. A strong cry went up 
from his soul to God with the lamentations of the royal 
Prophet. Once a sob which burst from his overcharged 
heart broke upon the stillness of the room. 

Meanwhile, a scene scarcely less painful was being 
enacted in the drawing-room, in the dining-room, and, 
in fact, in all the apartments of the house, each one in 
turn being examined by the officers of justice. 

Somewhere about eleven o’clock, a short time after the 
inquest, Marc Mauduit appeared upon the scene to fulfil 
as usual his daily duties. 

These were the correspondences, the management of 
money, and the keeping of private accounts. M. Pome- 
reul had thought very highly of Marc Mauduit, and was 
wont to praise his discretion, promptitude and good 
habits. In fact this well-dressed young man with the 
soft voice and intelligent face always inspired sympathy. 
Yet certain signs, by which physiognomists are rarely 


98 


IDOLS. 


deceived, might have led one to believe that his employer 
rated him rather too highly. The lips were thin, and 
the expression of the face not wholly devoid of cunning. 
But, as we have said, these details were lost in the 
pleasing whole. 

Marc Mauduit, lithe and graceful of figure, was always 
well and carefully dressed, but without affectation or 
display. He was fond of fine linen and the choicest 
perfumes. People often jested about the great care 
which he bestowed upon his hair, but he always answered 
in the same strain, that such care was more necessary 
for him than any one else, because he had to make up 
for its color by great attention to its arrangement. The 
servants, though not over-fond of him, always showed 
him the greatest deference. Xavier alone regarded him 
with positive hatred, which was easily accounted for by 
the fact, that the elder Pomereul so often drew a com- 
parison between his son’s extravagant and irregular 
habits, and the irreproachable conduct of his secretary. 

When Marc Mauduit appeared at the door, the con- 
cierge said to him in an agitated voice, 

‘^So you have not heard, M. Mauduit?” 

“ What is the matter ? what is going on ?” cried he. 

‘‘M. Pomereul was murdered last night.” 

“Murdered? By whom ?” 

“ By whom no one knows. But you know how it is 
with the law; it must always have a victim and make 
some arrest, and so M. Xavier has been arrested.” 

“ Ah !” cried Marc Mauduit. 

He said no more; he seemed overcome by emotion. 

“You are amazed, and no wonder,” continued the c&n- 
cierge j “a boy can be fond of gaming and of horses, 
without being capable of such a crime. What do you 
think ?” 

“ I ? Why I can answer for M. Xavier’s innocence.” 


HEART TRIALS. 


99 


“ Right you are, M. Marc,” said the other, “ and it does 
you honor.” 

“ But,” said the secretary, “ when such a dreadful 
affliction comes upon a family, notwithstanding their 
grief, many things have to be attended to. Have the 
funeral arrangements been thought of ?” 

“Nothing has been thought of, sir; every one is over- 
come with grief and horror 

“ Their grief must not be disturbed,” said Marc Mau- 
duit. “ I will consult with Baptiste, and see how I can 
be useful.” 

Marc Mauduit went up stairs and found Baptiste in the 
dining-room. 

“ My poor Baptiste,” said he, “ all I can do is to try 
and spare M. Sulpice the mournful duty of attending to 
the funeral. A certificate of burial is required, a coffln, 
a hearse, and printed announcements. I will attend to 
the legal formalities at the Mayor’s office, and bring the 
news to the workmen in the factory at Charenton. I 
have lost a protector, a second father, in the person of 
M. Pomereul; looking down on us from above, he will 
see that I deem it my sacred duty to honor his memory.” 

Baptiste highly approved of the young secretary’s 
devotion, and the latter proceeded to the Mayor’s office, 
to the undertaker’s, and lastly to Charenton. The news 
of M. Pomereul’s terrible death spread general conster- 
nation among the workmen at the factory. They asked 
themselves what would become of them, now that they 
had lost the master who had sweetened their laborious 
existence, and made their domestic life so honorable and 
so happy. The old men who had known him when he 
and they were still young, and who had seen his hair 
grow grey with their own, wiped away bitter tears. 
Each one recalled some act of benevolence or of gener- 
osity on the part of that excellent man. 


100 


IDOLS. 


Moreover if he had only died a natural death, irthey 
had been prepared for it b5^a long illness — but murdered! 
That good man! A cry of detestation against the mur- 
derer followed the first natural outburst of astonishment 
and sorrow, and when Xavier’s name was mentioned the 
excitement was intense. 

“It is impossible,” cried a young workman, whose 
dress was somewhat above his station; “he may have 
kept late hours, &nd been fond of good dinners and the 
theatre, but that does not lead to such a thing as this.” 

“It does lead to such things,” replied an old work- 
man, slowly, “ and before one thinks, too, laziness leads 
to drunkenness. First is spent the money earned, next 
the money borrowed, and lastly the money stolen. I do 
not mean this for M. Xavier, for I saw him first when he 
was a little fair-haired boy, and the sight of his rosy face 
did my heart good, but I say it for you and such as you, 
who want fashionable coats and despise the blouse, who 
read papers which are much more Rouge than Blue in 
their principles, and who play billiards in low coffee- 
houses; you make light of all this, my lad, but if any- 
thing bad happens in your neighborhood you’re like to 
get the credit of it. M. Xavier, I can answer for it, never 
murdered his poor father, but his conduct was bad. 
Circumstances which are almost proofs rise up against 
him, and God knows where it will all end.” 

“Yes,” echoed Marc Mauduit, “ God knows where it 
will all end.” 

“ Meanwhile,” said Blanc-Cadet, the old workman, 
“ we have a double duty to do, to pay the last tribute of 
respect to our good master, and if we can to help his son. 
We are only laborers, but the Son of God vouchsafed to 
be a carpenter, to sliow us the value of work. We have 
hearts, souls, arms, and intelligence, let us place all these 
at the service of the orphans. What say you, comrades ?” 


HEART TRIALS. 


lOI 


“We say yes, a thousand times, Father Blanc-Cadet,” 
they answered, vociferously. 

The old man now approached Marc. 

“We thank you, M. Mauduit,” said he, “for having 
come to tell us the sorrowful news; this afternoon a dep- 
utation of us will go to pay our tribute to the remains 
of our poor master, and to-morrow all the workmen will 
attend the funeral.” The secretary then got into the 
carriage and drove rapidly homeward. The workmen 
were full of honest grief, never had they so fully under- 
stood M. Pomereul’s constant kindness as now. When 
they thought of the infant-school, the work-room, and 
the hospital, all founded by this noble-hearted man, this 
model master, this generous capitalist, so delicate in his 
generosity, they could only repeat that no one could take 
his place towards them, and that they, too, like the Pome- 
reul family, were orphans. 

Each among them wanted to go to the Chaussee 
d’Antin to pray beside the mortal remains of the victim; 
it was at last decided that only the heads of each depart- 
ment should go in the name of their comrades. In 
about two hours afterwards they reached the Pomereul 
homestead. Sulpice, informed of their arrival, himself 
threw open the doors of the room, transformed into a 
chapelle ardente^ and when he saw them kneeling, pray- 
ing, stifling back their tears, the refreshing dew of heav- 
enly consolation fell upon his heart. 

“O God most good!” he said aloud, “God of mercy 
and of clemency, receive into thy eternal peace him 
whom thou hast so suddenly withdrawn from life. Shall 
not the memory of his many virtues, of his benevolence 
suffice for Thy justice ? We venture to hope so. Lord! 
but if aught remains against this man who lived to do 
good, if the alms so lavishly given were not offered fully 
and entirely to Thee, if he forgot to send upw^ards to 


102 


IDOLS. 


Thy throne the feeling which prompted him to relieve 
the poor and to assist his brethren, then, O my God! 
hear the voice of those who weep, accept our prayers and 
tears in suffrage for the imperfections of his life, and let 
the pain and horror of his last hour obtain for him 
mercy in Thy sight.” 

All hearts were wrung, all eyes were streaming with 
tears, and all hands were outstretched towards the 
corpse as if for a parting benediction. Sulpice vainly 
tried to persuade these worthy men to retire; they in- 
sisted upon remaining to watch beside their master and 
benefactor, to share the vigils of the family. Both Sul- 
pice and his sister consented, too much touched by this 
mark of grief and respect to insist further. 

The night passed solemnly in the chamber of 'death. 
Sulpice prayed aloud by turns, and the others answered. 
Notwithstanding her weakness, Sabine had insisted on 
remaining beside her father. Kneeling by the bed, her 
hands resting upon the coverlet, she seemed utterly 
unconscious. Orders had been given that the funeral 
should take place very early in the morning. But, de- 
spite the unusual hour, a dense crowd had assembled in 
the Place de la Trinite. According to promise, the 
workmen of the factory at Charenton had come thither 
with their wives and children. An effort was made to 
spare Sulpice the pain of saying the Mass and giving 
the final absolution. But, heroic to the last, the young 
priest would not permit any one else to pronounce, in the 
name of the Church, the last farewell to the beloved 
dead. As soon as the coffin had been placed in the 
hearse, the children of the employees advanced, each one 
laying a wreath upon it. The procession passed on to 
Pere-la-Chaise, where the Pomereuls had a vault. No 
panegyric was pronounced over the remains: not be- 
cause the merchants, and the Municipal Council, of 


HEART TRIALS. 


103 


which M. Pomereul had been a member had excused 
themselves from accompanying the funeral, but because 
of the charge against Xavier. To speak of the death 
would have been the same as' mentioning the name of 
him whom some already called the murderer, and would 
thus have inflicted another pang upon Sulpice. Every 
one present came forward to shake hands with him; he 
kissed the younger of the children, and took his place 
with^ Benedict in M. Nicois’ carriage. The banker was 
in despair. 

“ Ah!” said he, in a tone of deep grief, “ it seems as if I 
were, indeed, the cause of my poor friend’s death. For 
had I not asked for the hundred thousand francs, no one 
would have thought of robbing him.” 

“ You had every right to apply to a friend for the loan 
you required, M. Nicois,” said Sulpice, “and I shall con- 
sider it my duty to render you the service my father had 
promised. The sum which you require shall be placed 
to your credit at the bank, and you can use it at your 
discretion; accept it from me, as you would have done 
from Antoine Pomereul.” 

“ But under such circumstances — ” 

“ Our affliction will not lessen your anxiety, sir; my 
father’s friendship for you must survive him, for we are 
heirs to it. If ever you find yourself in trouble, believe 
me always ready to sympathize with you.” 

M. Nicois did not ask to see Sabine, but Benedict re- 
turned home with Sulpice. 

“Do you think your unfortunate brother has chosen 
a lawyer?” asked he. 

“ He will not hear of it, my dear Benedict,” said Sul- 
pice, “ he disdains it.” 

“Let me go and see M. Renaut for you;” said Bene- 
dict; “ he is a young man of great talent in whom I have 
every confidence.” 


104 


IDOLS. 


“Do as you like, my brother,” said Sulpice, extend- 
ing his hand, which the other warmly pressed. 

“ Will you not give me yours also ?” asked he, address- 
ing Sabine. 

The young girl hesitated ; but seeing the look of 
pain and reproach^ upon the artist’s face, she could not 
refuse. 

“A brother may indeed take his sister’s hand,” she 
said, gravely. 

Benedict started, and looked at her with sad surprise; 
but Sulpice whispered, 

“She has suffered so much that you must pardon her 
dejection.” 

Benedict soon went away, and Sabine threw herself 
into her brother’s arms, with an outburst of grief. 

“lean bear no more!” she cried. “My God! it is 
too much for a feeble creature. You are a saint, Sul- 
pice, but I am but a woman, and my strength has given 
way.” 


Tllfi INVIOLABLE SECRET. 


105 


CHAPTER VIII. 

The Inviolable Secret. 

However exhausted in mind and body, the Abbe 
Pomereul was none the less resolved to settle everything 
which his father’s sudden death had left unsettled. His 
first important Step was to proceed to Charenton, to se- 
cure the interests of the laboring population there, and 
also those of Xavier and Sabine. He sent for the fore- 
man of the foundry, the heads of each department of 
carvers, mounters, or other workmen, and said to them 
frankly and kindly: 

“ My friends, your prosperity as well as ours rests with 
yourselves. I can guide you in the right way, teach 
your children the lessons of the gospel, and to love the 
things of God; but I am powerless to direct you in the 
affairs of the foundry, or bear so heavy a burden. If 
we give up — do not look well to the control of affairs 
at present — it is more than probable that more disastrous 
times will follow. There are rumors of war on all sides; 
hostilities with Prussia may begin any day; trade will 
inevitably suffer. The wisest course is, therefore, to 
continue what my good father so well commenced, thanks 
to your honesty and devotion. Henceforth you will no 
longer be the workmen or employees of the house of 
Pomereul, but its proprietors. Our commercial pros- 
perity will be yours. You will have full charge of the 
laborers under your orders. If their conduct has been 
hitherto good, help me to make it still better. I will 
now have many cares; therefore I beg of you to supply 
what I cannot do; give me this consolation in my heavy 
sorrow: say to me, ‘ The men, their wives and children, 


io6 


IDOLS. 


Still continue in the way of virtue, from which nothing 
will turn them aside.’ ” 

“ So it shall be, I swear to you, in the name of my 
companions,” answered Blanc-Cadet. “As for our in- 
terest in the profits, we will accept it willingly, as upon 
it depends the future of our families. God grant that the 
loss of your poor father may be the last of your troubles.” 

“ But will you not come any more to officiate in our 
chapel, sir ?” asked one of the men. 

“ I will devote Sunday to you, as usual, my friends,” 
said Sulpice. “ My greatest consolation hereafter will 
be to live among you. Farewell, or rather au revoh'. My 
mind is now at peace.” 

Touching was this scene between the Abbe Pomereul 
and the workmen of the factory. All of them had tears 
in their eyes, and Sulpice could scarce restrain his own 
emotion. 

However, he felt better after leaving Charenton. The 
interests of his brother and sister would be protectedj 
and these good people, whom he considered as a part 
of the family, would not suffer. When he got home, he 
went to Xavier’s rooms. He found them in the greatest 
disorder. The servants, with a sort of superstitious 
feeling, had not ventured to go in since the legal formali- 
ties had been gone through with there. Sulpice opened 
the secretary. He examined all the papers. They were 
principally bills. He classified them by dates, catalogued 
them, and added the total. It was,. indeed, a large sum, 
^but Sulpice sent word to the creditors that he would 
meet their demands on Monday. He sent to the Count 
de Monjoux the forty thousand francs which his brother 
had lost, praying him to excuse the slight delay in the 
payment of the debt. That done, Sulpice breathed more 
freely. At first he thought of selling Xavier’s horses and 
carriages. 


THE INVIOLABLE SECRET. 


107 

“But, no,” he said; “that would seem like casting a 
reflection upon him, and might add to the gravity of his 
situation.” 

He had just finished making up the accounts, and con- 
cluded his arrangements, when, coming out of Xavier’s 
apartments, hue met the doctor. 

“You have come to ask for Sabine, M. Morvan ?” said 
he. “ I thank you for your kindness. The poor thing is 
very weak and broken down.” 

“ She is in no danger, however,” said the doctor. 

“ She is a heroic child, and, being a true Christian, seeks 
strength from on high. I am less uneasy about her 
than about her unfortunate brother. M. Xavier has lost 
that wonderful vitality, which is one of the privileges of 
youth. He is in such a state of despair that I fear for 
his mind.” 

“Doctor ! what are you saying ?” cried Sulpice. 

“ It is a terrible truth, sir,” said the doctor. “ Late 
hours and dissipation have told upon his constitution. 
Another shock would finish him. Happily, however, 
there is only an accusation as yet. He may be speedily 
released. Of course, I am perfectly convinced of his 
innocence; but will he be able to prove it ?” 

“Ah ! you believe in him; you — think him innocent.” 

“ Why, I am certain of it,” said the doctor; “and M. 
Obry is of the same opinion. Unfortunately, M. Gau- 
bert has accumulated evidence, and the sole witness of 
the murder is a creature who, though gifted with the 
greatest sagacity or intelligence, is unfortunately de- , 
prived of speech.” 

“ Lipp-Lapp ?” asked the priest. 

“Yes; the poor creature seems to know that he is 
needed. Sometimes his eyes question us, and his lips, 
too, tremble. He gives a cry, and great tears roll down 
his cheeks. Have no fear; I will cure Lipp-Lapp, and 


io8 


IDOLS. 


set him on the trail of the murderers, and I warrant you he 
will find them out quicker than a whole squad of police.” 

“ You are right,” said Sulpice, after a moment’s silence. 
“ That poor creature may be the means which God will 
employ to make known the truth — the truth which has 
escaped the magistrates, and which it is not in my power 
to make known.” 

Just then a mournful sound was heard in the adjoining 
room, and the doctor said: 

“He has recognized your voice, and is calling you.” 

They went in. As soon as he saw his young master, 
the chimpanzee rose and held out one arm towards him. 
His eyes, dimmed by suffering, sparkled with joy, but, 
overcome by weakness, he sank back exhausted. 

“ You see,” said the doctor, “ your young master 
loves you; he has not forgotten you.” 

Lipp-Lapp moved upon the pillow, and with an effort 
put his hand to his head, making a movement as if pull- 
ing out hair, and then to his breast. 

“ See,” said the doctor, “ Lipp-Lapp is telling you how 
it was he plucked the hair from the murderer’s head. 
The murderer wounded the poor chimpanzee, and it is 
for us to find the wretch.” 

“ Yes,” thought Sulpice; “ for that is not Jean Machu, 
but the accomplice, to whom I have promised nothing, 
nothing !” 

When Lipp-Lapp saw that his master was going away, 
he held out his long hairy hand, which Sulpice pressed, 
remembering that it had defended his father. 

Sulpice had not seen his sister since the evening before; 
he found her in her little room, gazing, through her tears, 
at a photograph which Benedict Fougerais took care to 
have taken some hours after M. Pomereul’s death. This 
representation of violent death was frightful, and yet the 
young girl could not take her eyes from it. 


THE INVIOLABLE SECRET. 


109 


“Sabine, I implore you,” cried Sulpice, “give me that 
horrible picture. Forget that you saw your father after 
his terrible death agony. Remember him only as he was 
when last we embraced him.” 

“ I remember him so, Sulpice,” she answered, “ and yet 
my eyes seem to fix themselves upon this photograph, as 
if it would reveal the secret of our father’s death, and 
tell us the murderer’s name.” 

“ God will make it known, if He so wills, Sabine,” said 
her brother; “ but, meanwhile, for us courage, for Xavier, 
resignation.” 

“ And can he be resigned ?” said Sabine; “ must he not 
hate both the law and society at large ? Who knows but 
that he curses me, for did not my replies to the magis- 
trate help to draw on him their odious suspicions ?” 

“We must submit to whatever the will of God per- 
mits,” said Sulpice; “Sabine, my sister, do not reproach 
yourself; you have done your duty.” 

“ When can you see Xavier ?” asked she. 

“ The day after to-morrow, I hope,” replied Sulpice. 

“ May I go with you, Sulpice ?” 

“ I do not feel strong enough to have you with me during 
that first interview, Sabine,” said he; “ let me go alone and 
receive the first outburst of his grief and despair. You 
will come afterwards like a consoling angel, to soften the 
bitterness of that poor heart. Alas ! If your sorrow for 
Xavier’s situation be not greater than mine, at least you 
have a better right to console him.” 

“ But promise me that you will let me go every other 
time,” said she. 

“I promise,” answered the priest. 

“Then,” said she, “I must dry my tears; if Xavier 
were to see us so overcome, he would believe his case 
hopeless. I will take your advice and put away this pic- 
ture which renews my grief.” 


no 


IDOLS. 


Sulpice left his sister to go to M. Renaut’s; the law- 
yer, engaged by Benedict, to place his talents and elo- 
quence at Xavier’s service. He had not been able to 
see him until the matter was made public. When they 
reached the prison, Xavier, as was usual in exceptional 
cases, was received by the director of the jail. He 
was ushered into a room, of which the architecture re- 
sembled a chapel; and the first legal formalities were 
attended with so much courtesy and kindness, that 
Xavier warmly thanked the director. The latter, upon a 
word from M. Obry, had promised to pay every attention 
to Xavier, and to spare him as much as possible the hor- 
rors of prison life. A well-lighted cell, with newly white- 
washed walls, was given him; a narrow bed, a table, and 
a chair constituted its furniture. At his request they 
brought him writing materials. As soon as he was left 
alone he began a long letter to Sulpice. When it was 
finished he re-read it, and remained absorbed in thought, 
his elbows resting on the table, and his head buried in 
his hands. A jailer coming into the cell aroused him 
from his meditations. 

“ What do you want ?” asked Xavier. “ I did not call.” 

“ People never call here,” replied the jailer; “ I brought 
your supper.” 

“ I am not hungry,” said Xavier. 

‘‘As you please, sir,” said the jailer; “but M. Gaubert 
has ordered a new examination, and it is better in such 
cases to keep up one’s strength.” 

“ What ! is he going to question me again ?” said Xavier. 

“ Most likely,” answered the jailer. 

“ How many times does he mean to put me to the tor- 
ture ?” said Xavier. 

“Until his opinion changes, or his conscience is satis- 
fied.” 

The keeper went out. Xavier did not touch the coarse 


THE INVIOLABLE SECRET. 


Ill 


food set before him; he threw himself on the bed, though 
he could not sleep, his wearied brain seeking for some 
infallible means, some indisput^-ble proof by which to 
convince the judge of his innocence. But he could not 
find any. His past career condemned him in anticipa- 
tion. He could find no means by which to escape from 
the burden of this fearful accusation. Not one act of 
virtue or of self-sacrifice arose to plead for him from out 
the long years of his unprofitable youth. His time had 
been always spent in pursuits which were useless if not 
dangerous. He could number many companions of the 
gaming-table, of his suppers and his revelry, but he 
could not count upon one friend. Benedict Fougerais 
alone had stood by him, and that not so much through 
liking or esteem for Xavier, as for Sabine’s sake. 

Sabine ! What did she think of him ? And Sulpice ! 
With what anguish, he asked himself, would they too 
consider his past offences as sufficient reason to accuse 
him of such a crime ! What mattered the opinion of the 
multitude if Sabine and Sulpice believed him innocent ? 
The director of the prison came to see him. Xavier 
begged him to forward the letter which he had just writ- 
ten to his brother. 

“You are still under secrecy,” said the director, “but 
I shall send it as soon as possible.” 

The doctor also came to see him. He advised him to 
eat and keep up his strength; the director sent him in 
some lighter food, and Xavier managed to eat a little. 
During the evening he was summoned into the presence 
of M. Gaubert to undergo a second examination. When 
the summons came the prisoner trembled in every limb; 
since the evening previous he had been frequently seized 
with such nervous attacks, and they left him too weak 
and helpless to pass through this terrible ordeal. The 
jailer was obliged to repeat the magistrate’s orders; 


1 12 


IDOLS. 


then Xavier rose with some difficulty, and followed him 
in silence. When he found himself in presence of the 
magistrate Xavier did not even hear the words addressed 
to him, but said in a broken voice: 

“Sir, I am innocent; of course you do not believe it; 
you accumulate, to my ruin, a monstrous collection of 
facts and suppositions, in which you place the proof of 
my guilt. I repeat to you, as I shall repeat at the bar of 
justice, and as I shall proclaim to the world, that I did 
not murder my father. Your questions are horrible 
tortures to me; L am free to remain silent, and I de- 
clare that whatsoever you may ask me, I shall refuse to 
answer.” 

“Take care,” said the magistrate, severely. 

“ What more have I to fear ?” -said Xavier. “ I spoke 
to you at first with perfect frankness. I confessed my 
folly and my debts; my criminal attempt to rob my father 
of the sum he had refused me. I concealed nothing; I 
did not dissimulate. You had my effects searched. Did 
you find the money which you accuse me of having 
taken ?” 

“Your accomplice of course has the money,” said the 
magistrate, sententiously. 

“ But I have no accomplice, nor am I a criminal my- 
self,” said Xavier. 

“ Let us look at things in their true light,” said the 
magistrate. “ You took the keys and opened the safe. 
While you were busy abstracting the money, your father, 
awakened by the noise, appeared. You, the son, were 
bewildered, stupefied, overpowered, by fear and remorse. 
Your accomplice, on the contrary, hoping to escape pun- 
ishment by a new crime, threw himself upon M. Pom- 
ereul. A terrible struggle took place, in which, I admit, 
you may not have taken any part. A third actor appeared 
upon the scene; it was Lipp-Lapp, who attempted to de- 


THE INVIOLABLE SECRET. 


II3 

fend his master, and fell wounded in his turn. Your 
accomplice fled and you crept terrified to your room. I 
admit that you may have been merely the passive spec- 
tator of a murder. But a murder was committed. If 
you did not strike the blow, who did? Name the mur- 
derer if you do not wish the consequences to fall upon 
your own head.” 

“ Sir,” said Xavier, “ my mind seems to wander and 
grow hazy. I scarcely know myself when I hear you 
picturing, with such terrible distinctness, events which 
you seem to see, to render visible, tangible, and which 
weigh upon me and oppress me like some horrible night- 
mare. I will not answer you farther, because I scarcely 
understand. I cannot answer farther, for I am becom- 
ing crazed.” 

“ Of course I cannot force you to do so,” said the mag- 
'istrate; “but for your own sake I regret the attitude you 
have taken, and I will not conceal from you that your 
refusal to answer will have an unfavorable effect upon 
the minds of your judges.” 

“ M. Gaubert,” said Xavier, “ I have always heard you 
spoken of as an honest, incorruptible judge, and a man 
whose great skill and experience were coupled with won- 
derful perception. Therefore, if you accuse me, they 
will accuse me. I must be resigned; and, however great 
the effort, I must be brave.. There are misfortunes 
which cannot be foreseen, and under which we fall and 
are crushed.” 

The magistrate turned to the jailer. “ M. Pomereul is 
remanded,” he said. Then to Xavier: 

“ From this time forth you are no longer under se- 
crecy.” 

“ I shall then be allowed to communicate with my fam- 
ily?” said Xavier. 

“ As far as the rules will permit,” said the magistrate. 


IDOLS. 


1 14 

“ I have written a letter. Can it be sent ?” asked Xavier. 

“After the director has examined it,” replied the mag- 
istrate. 

“You tell me that I am no longer under secrecy,” said 
Xavier; “ but what is more sacred than a letter wherein 
I show to my dearest friends, without any shame or dis- 
guise, a heart crushed as mine is ?” 

“It is the rule,” said the magistrate. 

Xavier followed the jailer. When he reached his cell 
he tore up the long letter which he had written to Sul- 
pice, and contented himself with writing simply, 

“ Come ! I am waiting for you !” 

The unfortunate prisoner passed a sleepless night. 
He counted the time told by the great clock, which he 
could hear striking the hour. The night seemed inter- 
minable to him. He paced his narrow cell, listened to 
the step of the jailer in the corridor without, half hoping,* 
with a sort of vague hope, that it might be Sulpice com- 
ing to visit him. At last a jailer appeared. 

“You are wanted in the parlor,” said he. 

Xavier barely suppressed a cry of joy, passed through 
various halls till he found himself in a large room. He 
looked for Sulpice, but saw no one. At last the jailer 
pointed to where his brother stood motionless at a little 
iron grating, separated by a strip of wall from a similar 
one. Xavier could not throw himself into his brother’s 
arms, nor even press his hand. Bitter was the disap- 
pointment, but he approached the grating and said, in a 
tremulous Voice: 

“ Sulpice, my dear Sulpice, it is really you. You do not 
accuse me of this crime. In your heart you believe me 
innocent. And does Sabine know that I am not guilty ?” 

“ We both pity you, and in your trial hold you far 
dearer than ever before. You were foolish, extravagant, 
but, oh ! you were not wicked.” 


THE INVIOLABLE SECRET. 


II5 

“You do me so much good, Sulpice,” said Xavier; 
“but, oh ! if others could hear you.” 

“ God will make known the truth,” said Sulpice. 

“Weak and foolish as I have been, Sulpice,” said 
Xavier, “ I did not deserve that Heaven should send so 
terrible a punishment for my sins. I am innocent, but 
how convince the world of it — how prove it to the judge, 
who questioned me again yesterday evening and found 
so many strong arguments against me ? Everything 
worked with such infernal smoothness, and there is so 
fatal an array of circumstances that, were I a judge and 
did such a one as myself appear before me, I believe that 
I would condemn him, as M. Gaubert has accused and 
condemned me.” 

“Ah, misguided man!” said Sulpice. 

“He is right, as a man and a judge,” said Xavier. 
“ The crime was committed and I was alone — alone. He 
told me I must find the other.” 

“ The other, yes, the other,” repeated the Abbe Sul- 
pice, turning pale. 

“ The wretch whom he calls my accomplice,” cried 
Xavier, excitedly, “ I call the true, sole, and only mur- 
derer. But I am in prison; I cannot go in search of him 
nor assist justice. It seems to me that, were I free, I 
should know him without ever having seen him, such 
horror and remorse must his crime have left upon his 
face. Ah, that accursed wretch; who will bring him be- 
fore the judge and the tribunal of justice to confess his 
crime and restore me my honor ?” 

“ I will find him in this Paris, large as it is,” cried 
Sulpice, half frenzied. “ I will recognize the house. I 
will throw myself at that man’s feet. I will say to him. 
Release me from my oath. I will not be like Cain — the 
murderer of my brother.” 

Xavier gave a cry. 


ii6 


IDOLS. 


“ You know him,” he cried; “ you know him!” 

But the Abbe Sulpice had already recovered from the 
brief hallucination during which he had disclosed the 
fact that he possessed the clue to the terrible drama that 
had convulsed the Pomereul household. Pale and totter- 
ing, he clung with both hands to the grating which sep- 
arated him from his unhappy brother. 

“So then I am saved,” cried Xavier. “You will go at 
once to M. Gaubert and give up the murderer, and I will 
be cleared from the horrible stain which rests upon me, 
and the wretch will undergo the full penalty of his crime.” 

“ I cannot do it,” murmured Sulpice. 

“Well,” said the prisoner, “of course, that is right; 
you are a priest, and must pardon even the murderer of 
the best of fathers; you would pardon your own mur- 
derer. You will, of course, do what your conscience 
dictates, and grant to thd wretch that mercy which he 
did not show his victim.” 

“ I cannot even do that, brother,” said Sulpice. “ I can- 
not go to the magistrate and say, ‘ I know the man, and 
will tell you his name.’ ” 

“ Do you forget that the honor of our name is at stake ?” 
said Xavier. 

“ I do not forget,” replied Sulpice. 

“ And that my life is in danger ?” 

“ I know it.” 

“Yet you hesitate between your brother and this 
wretch !” 

“ It breaks my heart to see my brother here, but I do 
not hesitate.” 

“ I do not understand— I am going mad !” cried Xa- 
vier. “You have discovered the murderer, and will not 
denounce him.” 

“ I did not discover him,” said Sulpice; “he confessed 
it all to me.” 


THE INVIOLABLE SECRET. 


II7 


“ And what matters your oath of silence, if you did 
give such an oath to a murderer, when it will lead to my 
destruction ? Who can release you from it ? The arch- 
bishop ? the Holy Father himself? Why, he would tell 
you to speak.” 

“ But,” said Sulpice, “ it is not merely a promise made 
to the criminal himself, Xavier; it is an oath made to 
God — a solemn oath from which no one can release me, 
not even the Pope. Yes, I know the name of him who 
murdered our father, and I cannot speak it. One word 
from my lips would set you free, and I must still be 
silent. I beg your mercy and forgiveness, brother; for, 
even were you to die, I dare not disclose the name nor 
unveil the face of our father’s murderer. Know that 
that which binds, and at the same time is killing me, is 
the sublime and terrible thing which they call the secret 
of confession.” 

“Ah!” cried Xavier, “but it does not oblige you to 
let me die. I respect that secret; it guarantees the in- 
violability of a penitent’s avowal; but when my head is 
concerned, it is different. You will not let me die, that 
you may remain faithful to your vow. When you swore 
inviolable secrecy as to the confessions received by you in 
the tribunal of penance, of course you could not foresee 
being placed between your own brother and a murderer. 
If you are silent, Sulpice; it will not be the law that 
condemns me to die, but you. I will no longer blame 
the judges, but I will curse you.” 

“Ah,” said the priest; “what you ask is impossible.” 

“You will let me be tried and condemned.^” 

“ Yes.” 

“ You will see me brought before the Court of Assizes, 
sooner than reveal the truth ?” 

“ I would give my life to save you, Xavier,” said Sulpice, 
“ but I cannot be false to my duty.” 


Ii8 


IDOLS. 


“But your duty will make you a fratricide,” said 
Xavier. 

“ My God, my God !” said Sulpice, falling on his knees, 

“ the trial is too great.” 

Xavier thinking that he had shaken his brother’s reso- 
lution, continued: 

“ I know how sacred you hold the word duty. I re- 
spect no other man or priest as I do you, Sulpice; yet, 
if you persist in this cruel silence, I shall no longer 
regard you with veneration, but with horror.” 

“Xavier,” said the priest, in a broken voice, “you 
remember when we were all children, we read books 
which described the agony of the martyrs. To urge 
them to apostacy, a mother, sister, or friend was sent 
into the cell. They cast themselves before the new-made 
Christian, begging him to burn incense before the idols, 
and renounce the Crucified. They said to him, what you 
now say to me, ‘ Sell your soul for love of us ! ’ ” 

“Yes,” cried Xavier, frantically; “sell your soul, re- 
nounce your God, be false to your priestly vow, risk 
eternal damnation if it is necessary, but oh, save me !” 

“Wretched boy!” cried Sulpice, “you have lost your 
faith.” 

“ I would trample the image of your God under my 
feet, if He obliged you to doom me to death. ' He is a 
cruel master who strikes me through your unrelenting 
honor as a priest. If you persist, Sulpice, I will appeal 
to the court, to the jury, to the whole world: He knows 
the guilty one, and will not reveal his name. And the 
law will oblige you to tell.” 

“You mistake, Xavier,” said Sulpice; “it respects the 
rigorous law which seals my lips.” 

“And I who do not respect it,” ^ cried Xavier, “will 
curse you when the evidence accumulates against me. 
I will curse you when I hear my sentence from the judge, 


THE INVIOLABLE SECRET. 


II9 

and when the foreman of the jury gives the verdict of 
his colleagues. I will curse you when the presiding 
judge reads the death penalty, and my last words upon 
the scaffold will be to curse you.” 

“ Miserere mei, Deus,” murmured the priest. 

His face was deathly pale; a mist gathered before his 
eyes; his brother’s words seemed to pierce his very soul. 
Meanwhile, Xavier clutched at the iron bars, his features 
were distorted, his lips covered with foam, he seemed 
the very image of despair. His brother’s heroic virtue 
roused him to fury. Unable to conceive the martyrdom 
which the hapless priest was undergoing, he overwhelmed 
him with cutting reproaches and bitter taunts. At last, 
maddened at sight of him, who was even then offering 
his life in exchange for his brother’s, Xavier cried, shaking 
the iron bars in his fury, 

“ Go, I say, go !” 

“ May I come again ?” asked Sulpice. 

“No,” cried Xavier; “the very sight of you fills me 
with horror. May you be accursed ! Cain! Cain!” 

The priest crept away from the bars, pursued by the 
horrible cry, 

Cain! Cain! 


120 


IDOLS. 


CHAPTER IX. 

A New Misfortune. 

The Abbe Sulpice was in his father’s study, looking 
over some papers, when Sabine entered. The young 
girl dressed in black bore even more in her heart than in 
her costume the deepest mourning for her father and her 
own happiness; she paused a moment mute and motion- 
less before her brother. She regarded him with compas- 
sion mingled with profound admiration ; and yet it seemed 
that the deep, tender affection she had once felt for him 
was lessened somehow in her heart; he was henceforth 
too great, too far above her. Something of that fear was 
upon her which kept from their side the wives, daughters 
or sisters of the prophets, of those whom the Lord 
seemed to draw near to His own glory, and cover at all 
times with His shadow. Sabine had just come from the 
prison. 

She had gone thither attended by Baptiste, who waited 
without in the anteroom, and h^d learned from Xavi- 
er’s lips the scene which had taken place between the 
brothers on the previous evening. Her first feeling was 
one of profound astonishment; her second, a species of 
awe inspired by, Sulpice’s exalted virtue, which seemed 
to human eyes so near cruelty. From that moment her 
whole heart went out towards Xavier. He alone seemed 
suffering; she pitied only him. Xavier’s affliction was 
so entire, so horrible, that she forgot the agony which 
Sulpice was enduring. She did not renounce him, but 
her heart no longer sought him. 

Alas! in those hours of terrible suffering, during that 
ordeal, to which few men were ever subjected, Sulpice 


A NEW MISFORTUNE. 


I2I 


had even more need of a friendly and consoling voice. 
Never had Sabine’s affection and tenderness seemed more 
desirable than in this hour when both failed him. Yet 
he did not reproach her even in thought. Could he 
expect from this child the superhuman strength which 
he owed to his priestly character ? Had he a right to 
raise Sabine to the same height as himself ? 

He knew that he would be censured by men, cursed 
by Xavier, that his brethren in the ministry would alone 
approve of the course he had taken, and that God only 
could console him. These thoughts flashed across his 
mind, whilst Sabine, in perfect silence, stood regarding 
him with painful intentness. 

“You saw him ?” asked Sulpice. 

“ I saw him. He was expecting M. Renaut.” 

“ Did he speak of me ?” 

Sabine hesitated. 

“ Oh, do not fear to tell me all,” said the young priest; 
“one pang more or less matters little.” 

“I do not understand,” said Sabine, shaking her head. 
And she added in a low voice, as if half ashamed of 
her own words, 

“I do not understand myself. I thought I had been 
early formed by you in the school of sacrifice, and it 
once seemed to me that however hard a duty might be 
it would find me ready. But it is not so. No, it is not 
so, Sulpice. All my compassion remains with Xavier. I 
will not tempt you, I do not reproach you, but I feel, 
with a sort of horror, that I have forsaken you and pre- 
ferred him.” 

Sulpice took his sister’s hand. 

“ Do not reproach yourself,” said he; “ go to him. Con- 
sole him, for consolation springs from your heart and 
flows from your lips. Meanwhile, if the priest’s lips are 
sealed, the man will labor none the less unceasingly. 


122 


IDOLS. 


There is a person whom I must seek, find, soften, that 
he may release me from my oath, and whose confession 
I will purchase with my entire fortune. Heaven can 
bring this man in my path, and I will hope. To each 
his part, Sabine. If I must journey through the desert 
with no angel hand to point out the spring of pure water, 
if I must bend beneath the burden of a sorrow misunder- 
stood by men, do not pity me. God will keep account 
of it. But comfort Xavier, devote yourself to him. Bring 
resignation into his soul. Though innocent of this 
crime he has been guilty of many faults; teach him to 
accept the punishment patiently, that the hand of the 
Lord may not weigh heavier upon him. We may not 
see much of each other during the next few days ; the 
work of justice is done in the shadow and I must strug- 
gle against it.” 

“Forgive me that I cannot rise to your height,” said 
Sabine. 

“Alas! my sister,” said the Abbe Pomereul, “were I 
abandoned to myself, I know too well how far my weak- 
ness might lead me.” 

They held each other’s hands for some moments, their 
lips trembled, their eyes filled with tears; at last they 
bade each other a reluctant good by, and Sabine went 
to her room. 

Whilst the priest continued his task, and Sabine wrote 
in her diary the painful impressions of the day, Leon 
Renaut proceeded to the prison for a first interview 
with Xavier. The young lawyer was only twenty-eight 
years of age. A native of the South, he had brought 
from that land, where a burning sun looked down upon 
the sea, his taste for all that was great, his youthful am- 
bition, his poetry and his eloquence. His examinations 
at the law school had been perfect triumphs, and his 
dehut had astonished even the veterans of the profession. 


A NEW MISFORTUNE. 


123 


Renaut possessed in a rare degree the quality of per- 
ception. Inferior to many as a consulting lawyer, little 
versed in the arts of lying and deceit, he had a perfect 
passion for difficult, intricate or dramatic cases, upon 
which he often threw a sudden light, and seizing the 
more human side of the case, dwelt upon it with the 
skill at once of a novelist and a lawyer. 

His whole appearance had contributed to the success 
to which he had already attained. He had a finely 
formed head, regular features, pale complexion, and 
large, brilliant eyes. His finely modulated voice had 
chords in it which went to the heart. He had a knack 
of using unexpected expressions and producing spon- 
taneous effects. If he did not carry the judge with him, 
at least he made a deep impression upon the jury, 
and the opposing lawyer dreaded so formidable an op- 
ponent. He feared him all the more that the young 
lawyer always adhered strictly to oratorical or parlia- 
mentary forms. None knew better than he how to pay 
a tribute to the talent or experience of his adversary, and 
to wind up by showing in the most conclusive manner 
that he was wrong both in fact and in point of law. 
When Benedict Fougerais went to ask Renaut to under- 
take Xavier’s defence the young .lawyer held out both 
hands to him. 

“Have no fear,” said he; “skill will be of little avail in 
such a case as this; heart must win the victory, and, 
thank God! I have one in my breast. Certainly the case 
seems almost hopeless, and the unfortunate boy has got 
himself into the meshes of a net, which encloses him 
on every side, but we will find means to break the net 
and let the poor fellow” out. How often I have seen 
him, gay, careless, light-hearted! How he did throw 
his life to the four winds of pleasure! What a prodigal 
youth has his been! What mad infatuation! The hand- 


124 


IDOLS. 


some gamester, the agreeable boon companion has come 
to this! An accusation which incurs capital punishment! 
I will see him this very day, and I swear, Benedict, that 
as surely as God has given me some talent I will use it 
to defend him.” 

“Thanks,” cried Benedict, “thanks! I not only re- 
gard Xavier as the friend and companion of my youth- 
ful days, the son of my benefactor, but almost as my 
brother.” 

“ You are to marry Sabine Pomereul ?” said the law- 
yer. 

“ Her father gave his consent to our engagement the 
night before his death. Since then, though, I do not 
know what Sabine has in her head, but she avoids me. 
Yesterday she refused to receive me, sending word that 
her mourning did not permit her to see any one. Her 
mourning ! as if I had no part in it. She has no right to 
deprive me of being with her, and trying to console her, 
once she has placed her hand in mine and said, ‘ I will 
be your wife.’ You must save Xavier Pomereul. Then 
I shall have my hopes for the future.” 

“Yes,” said the lawyer, “I understand what Mile. 
Pomereul has not yet told you. Young, wealthy, of high 
social position, she was willing to become your wife; but 
if Xavier Pomereul be condemned, the poor girl will 
wear all her life two-fold mourning for the honor of her 
family and her love for you.” 

“ Yes, yes, you are right, Leon,” said Benedict; “ pro- 
cure the brother’s acquittal and the sister will be restored 
to me. Sabine must be the guardian angel of my life. 
Ever since I remember, whilst the father gradually de- 
veloped my intellect and my artistic sentiment, whilst 
Sulpice placed my inspiration under the guidance of 
faith, Sabine has seemed to me the very personification 
of domestic virtues. 


A NEW MISFORTUNE. 


125 


“Well,” said Leon Renaut, “this is another powerful 
incentive for me to espouse her brother’s cause with all 
possible zeal.” 

The young men parted at the prison gate. Bene- 
dict went home, and the lawyer was admitted to the 
cell of his client. He found him utterly prostrate. The 
occurrences of the past two days had broken him down 
both in body and mind. His paroxysm of rage once 
passed, he began to remember Sulpice’s words, and to 
repeat to himself that the murderer of his father was in 
Paris, and that one word would be sufficient to bring 
him to justice and restore himself to liberty, but he re- 
mained as if stricken by a sudden blow. Hitherto he 
had struggled against the accusation and protested his 
innocence; but now his courage seemed utterly to fail 
him. Where was the use, was not his cause already lost ? 
The sight of his lawyer seemed to arouse him from his 
stupor. This handsome, brave young man, so full of life 
and vigor, who declared himself his champion, "won his 
heart, and finding the lawyer convinced of his innocence 
he blushed at his own weakness. 

For the first time he opened his heart, displayed its 
wounds, and related even the smallest details of the 
drama which seemed so incomprehensible, look at it as 
he would. Whilst Leon Renaut took notes and classi- 
fied the facts, he became more and more convinced that 
his client had never even handled those bank-notes, 
which in a moment of frenzy he had dreamed of appro- 
priating. But still the difficulties were many and seri- 
ous. Would his own conviction influence the jury? In 
presence of facts would presumption in favor of Xavier 
have any weight ? Certainly he had never undertaken so 
difficult a case, and the battle would be greater than any 
as yet lost or won by the young lawyer. Public opinion 
ran strongly against Xavier. At the time instances of 


126 


IDOLS. 


wild and dissipated sons were becoming every day more 
frequent. Some robbed their father, others ended their 
career of folly by a cowardly suicide. Xavier capped the 
climax in the long list of those who ended a precocious 
youth spent in extravagant folly by a terrible crime. Of 
him an example must be made for other young men. 
Society had long been crying out that the new gen- 
eration was rotten ; therefore a gangrened member 
must be cut off. Arrayed against Xavier were the en- 
vious whom he had outshone in extravagance and 
luxury, the rivals of his successes on the turf, or at the 
theatre, fathers of families, and magistrates. They rang 
the changes in every key on the fact that an example 
was needed. Renaut knew all this and knew that it was 
harder to struggle against public opinion than to carry 
the jury. He did not conceal the truth from Xavier, but 
he used the very difficulties which lay before them to 
stimulate his courage. 

“Alone I can do nothing,” he said, “but with you I 
am strong. Your attitude in the court, your replies, will 
assist me greatly. Between this and the great day of 
our struggle collect your thoughts and take note of 
everything that may be useful to me. Meanwhile, I will 
see the Abbe Sulpice.” 

“You will get nothing from him,” said Xavier. 

“You are mistaken,” said Renaut; “I will obtain from 
the man and the brother what is due to justice. He 
can speak as follows without betraying his sacred office: 
Two men were on the stairs when I went in; they 
came for me; while I was with them they played a 
sacrilegious farce, made use of a base subterfuge to force 
me to silence.” 

“But who will believe so dark and mysterious an act 
in this drama which seems devised on purpose for my 
ruin ?” 


A NEW MISFORTUNE. 


127 


“It will be believed, because your brother will declare 
it,” said the lawyer; “his reputation for sanctity will 
leave no room for doubt. However brief his testi- 
mony it will suffice. The presiding judge, jury, etc., 
will divine the truth, which it is forbidden the ministry 
of God to reveal. They will understand that the real 
culprit exists, and that nothing remains for them but to 
release you.” - 

“You are right,” cried Xavier, “and I will cling to 
this hope. If you believe in me, I must not lose faith in 
myself. I owe it to Sabine, Benedict, and the few friends 
who refuse to believe me a ruffian.” 

“Well, keep up your courage,” said Renaut, “the bat- 
tle has commenced. I will come every day.” 

Whilst Sabine went daily to console and encourage 
the prisoner, whilst Leon Renaut endeavored to keep 
up his strength, and whilst Xavier alternated between 
hope and despair, Sulpice was scouring Paris for the es- 
caped convict, who held in his hands the destiny of his 
family. It seemed to him that God must put the mur- 
derer in his way, and that he must conquer him by gen- 
tle persuasion. It seemed that his sufferings were great 
enough to merit such a reward. Every day he set out 
and wandered hap-hazard through the streets, having 
but one object in view. He visited the prisons, the low- 
est parts of the city, scanned every group, peered at dark 
figures by night, and followed men whose gait or ap- 
pearance reminded him of Jean Machu. He was forever 
consumed by this burning thirst. His nerves seemed 
strained to the utmost, like the cords of an instrument 
where the tension is so great that but little more will 
suffice to snap them. He returned home^late at night, 
utterly exhausted, his head burning, his feet swollen and 
painfuh Prayer seemed to refresh him unspeakably. 
He found in it, not, indeed, forgetfulness, but strength; 


128 


IDOLS. 


and the next day, sustained by his brotherly affection, 
he set out again on his wearisome quest, ever hoping 
and expecting to find himself, some midnight, perchance, 
face to face with his father’s murderer. 

Once he went to the quay. It was full of gaudily 
dressed, showy looking people. The day was one of 
bright sunlight. Every one seemed happy in the very 
fact of existence, though the political news was any- 
thing but hopeful. A declaration of war, however, 
seemed to every one the sure precursor of victory. ^ No 
one feared for the future of that great army. The past 
was the best guarantee for the approaching struggle. 
When the sound of trumpets or the measured tread of a 
battalion struck upon the ears of the crowd, dispersing 
them to right and left, a murmur of delight greeted the 
soldiers. Their imposing appearance and martial mien 
was freely admired; already the people saw them re- 
turning as conquerors, and bouquets were often show- 
ered upon them as they passed. 

Sulpice loitered about that portion which lies near 
the prison. All along the quay dealers in second- 
hand books displayed their wares to the passers-by. At 
some little distance from the last book-stall a crowd 
were surrounding a man who stood behind a wooden 
table, so formed that he could close it up and move it 
at will. This table served as a balustrade, keeping the 
juggler apart from the crowd. Dressed in a sort of dark 
velvet blouse, holding in his hand a black felt hat, the 
actor, who seemed to be remarkably dextrous, changed 
the expression of his face with wonderful art, and with 
astonishing rapidity. The hat was twisted into every 
variety of form, and, each one being accompanied by 
appropriate movements of the muscles of the face, the 
man was rendered almost unrecognizable. If you have 
read Poussin’s Jktiides sur les Fassioyis de VAme^ you can 


A NEW MISFORTUNE. 


129 


form some idea of this man, reproducing by turns the 
most opposite expressions with a skill which was really 
artistic. Children laughed till they cried; nurses forgot 
their errand; urchins shouted for very glee, and every 
minute the crowd grew greater, till it became impos- 
sible to pass. The policemen, attracted by the spec- 
tacle, forgot to cry ‘‘ Move on,” and Sulpice, about to 
cross the street, found it impossible. Seeing that he 
could not get on, he ren.ained unwillingly enough, 
waiting till some movement of the crowd might permit 
him'to pass. By the merest chance he glanced at the 
performer. Like a flash came a memory to him. Yet 
at first sight there was nothing about this man to dis- 
turb Sulpice; he was a mountebank exercising his pro- 
fession with the ease of long habit. He laughed, he 
made jokes and grimaces, his countenance seemed open 
and simple as a child’s, and yet Sulpice was involuntarily 
convinced that this face with its multifarious expres- 
sions belonged to Jean Machu, the convict. The very 
intensity with which the Abbe Pomereul regarded him 
seemed to have a certain fascination for the performer, 
and the priest noticed a slight twitching of the eyes, and 
saw that he seemed to lose something of his animation. 
In fact there was a sinister gleam of feared defiance in 
the mountebank’s eyes which would have dispelled all 
doubt as to his identity, if doubt had remained in the 
abbe’s mind. A sort of struggle began at once between 
Jean Machu and the priest. The former sought to es- 
cape the latter. Sulpice, thanking God for having at 
last brought him face to face with the murderer, was re- 
solved to follow him wheresoever he went, and to wait 
as long as he might be inclined to exhibit himself to the 
public. 

Jean Machu felt his vivacity diminish as his irritation 
increased. Whatever the Abbe Pomereul might have to 


130 


IDOLS. 


say, he dreaded an interview with him. Finding no far- 
ther inspiration for the performance with which he had 
hitherto regaled the crowd gratis, Jean Machu brought 
his hand'down upon the shoulder of a boy of fourteen 
or thereabouts, in whom it was easy to recognize Pomme 
d’Api. 

Play an air,” he said, roughly. “ I want to bring out 
my soap.” 

While the boy struck up an air upon the organ as a 
sort of overture, Jean Machu, still keeping his eyes fixed 
upon the Abbe Sulpice, drew from the table some green 
phials full of red liquid, and some cakes of soap wrap- 
ped in gilt paper. He seemed to find less difficulty in 
pronouncing his customary panegyric on the articles in 
question than in improvising the jokes which preceded 
each of his facial changes. The overture ended, the 
farce had to be played, the receipts taken in, and then to 
get away from the place, or discover, if he could, what 
M. Pomereul’s son might want with him. 

The Abbe Sulpice, approaching one of the book-stalls, 
seemed to be intent on an old Latin volume, but his 
eyes never strayed from Jean Machu, and the wretch be- 
came convinced that there was no hope of escaping that 
watchfulness. He tapped Pomme d’Api playfully on 
the head. 

“ Enough music,” he said. “ You must not disgust the 
Conservatory people.” 

Then, tearing the gilt paper from one of the cakes of 
soap, he began: 

“ Ladies and gentlemen, this soap for removing stains, 
which I have the honor of offering to your enlightened 
appreciation, has been patronized by all the crowned 
heads of Europe. Her Britannic Majesty uses it for the 
hands; the king of Prussia for shaving. It is infinitely 
superior to the ordinary soap which housekeepers em- 


A NEW MISFORTUNE. 


I3I 

ploy in washing, to carbonate of soda, Panama chips, 
and all such. Come here, my bashful lad,” continued 
the charlatan, seizing upon a raw lad who was listening 
with gaping mouth. “ You have received, through your 
mother’s goodness, a new vest fresh from the shop. The 
price is still on it — thirty francs sixty-five. Why, you 
got it for nothing! Now, ladies and gentlemen, you see 
the freshness of this stuff. I will just spill this little phial 
of oil upon it, like that — ” 

And the rogue actually did spill the oil upon the poor 
boy’s vest, while the latter made desperate efforts to 
escape from the charlatan’s grasp, and only succeeded in 
splitting his coat. 

“ Have patience, good youth,” said Jean Machu, with 
a sardonic laugh. “ I would surely not destroy such a 
costly vest, had I not the means of restoring it to Its 
pristine splendor. You see the stain, ladies and gentle- 
men; it has visibly increased; it has now spread over the 
entire back of the garment. Well, I will now rub it with 
my soap, my incomparable cleansing soap, and imme- 
diately it grows paler, becomes effaced, disappears en- 
tirely, without leaving a trace. I thank you. worthy 
youth, for having lent yourself with such good grace to 
scientific experiments. If your mother should not be 
pleased, go fearlessly to the shop at the Pont Neuf. 
Your money will be returned. And now for some 
music !” 

Pomme d’Api played a waltz, and meanwhile twenty 
hands were outstretched for cakes of soap. 

Order, order ! have some order !” cried Jean Machu. 

“ Two cakes of soap for you, madame ? One for that 
pretty little cook ? And you, brunette ? Come, come ? 
only twenty-four cakes remain, at sixteen cents a cake. ‘ 
Machu displayed his merchandise under the very eyes 
of the police, to whom he showed a license from the 


132 


IDOLS. 


prefect of police which seemed perfectly regular. Mean- 
while, the Abbe Sulpice continued looking over the 
books. At last Jean Machu thought he could escape 
those watchful eyes. Hastily he refolded his table, gave 
it to Pomme d’Api, whispering, 

“ Go to thfe right; I will go to the left. Get back as 
quick as you can to Methusalem’s.” 

But this movement had not been lost upon the abbe. 
He had made up his mind to speak to Jean Machu, but 
he had also to consider his promise. His conscience 
would not permit him to compromise the ruffian in any 
way, nor say or do anything which might betray the 
secret. He feigned, therefore, to have lost sight of him; 
but scarce had Machu gone round the nearest corner 
than the abbe followed him. Jean Machu turned once, 
but the crowd of vehicles prevented him from seeing 
the priest, and supposing that he had eluded him, he 
rushed down the Rue Git-le-Coeur. When he reached 
Methusalem’s house he turned again, but saw no one. 
The Abbe Pomereul had hidden himself in an alley way. 
He determined to wait till nightfall, and then have a de- 
cisive interview with the murderer. He leaned against 
the wall, perfectly motionless. He could easily see from 
his post of observation what manner of customers en- 
tered Methusalem’s shop. They were not purchasers of 
its wares, for none came out of that sinister abode. He 
divined at once that he was in the vicinity of a most 
dangerous den, where a visit from the police would re- 
sult in the arrest of many others as well as his father’s 
murderer. 

The day slowly waned, and night came — a dark night, 
moonless and starless. One by one Methusalem’s cus- 
tomers quitted the “boarding-house.” Pomme d’Api 
sauntered out, cigar in mouth, and went on his way to 
Chatelet to exercise his calling of opening carriage-doors 


A NEW MISFORTUNE. 


33 


in front of the theatre. Fleur d’Echafaud next appeared 
arm in arm with a showily-dressed young man. Soon 
afterwards a heterogeneous party issued, in every variety 
of costume. 

Jean Machu came out last. The searching glances 
which he cast round did not penetrate the abbe’s hiding- 
place, and just as he passed the dark alley way he made 
a gesture which seemed to say, 

“All’s well; why should I be uneasy ?“ 

Jean Machu went through St. Michel’s Square, and 
proceeding along the quay, passed the Hotel Dieu and 
Notre Dame. 

He seemed lost in the deep shadows of the night, when 
a footstep close behind him caused him to turn his head. 
He ‘waited a moment to see whether it was simply a 
passer-by, or whether some one was following him of a 
set purpose. As he did so, a hand was suddenly laid 
upon his shoulder, and he barely suppressed a cry. 

“You are not mistaken, Jean Machu,” said a voice, 
which trembled with excessive emotion; “it is I.” 

“ You promised to forget,” cried he. 

“ I swore that I would not betray you.” 

“ But don’t you understand that your being seen with 
me is dangerous ?” 

“Yes; otherwise I would have addressed you to-day, 
in front of the prison, upon which your gaze was fixed, 
as if you feared lest its walls should claim their prey. 
You know, then, Jean Machu, the result of your crime, 
and of your diabolical ingenuity.” 

“ Yes,” answered the felon. 

“ You know that my unfortunate brother is accused in 
your place, and that in your place he will, perhaps, be 
condemned to death ?” 

“ What can I do ?” cried the ruffian, in a hoarse, unnat- 
ural voice. “Ail I want is impunity. The law has 


134 


IDOLS. 


made a mistake; that is not my business. Your brother 
has his innocence to plead for him, and besides a famous 
lawyer." 

“ Do you not tremble lest I, seeing my brother in such 
peril, should save him at any price ?" 

“ No," said Jean Machu, composedly. 

“ Beware, Jean Machu ! I am but a man, a weak, frail 
man, whose reason seems at times to totter under the 
weight of a duty so cruel. Sometimes I can scarcely 
distinguish right from wrong. My brother cursed me. 
He will die in despair if sentenced by the law. Machu, 
remember that I saved you once. Remember that I 
promised to keep your secret, unconscious of the fatal 
consequences to my nearest of kin. I gave you the 
stolen gold; I freely pardoned you the blood which you 
had sp’.lled; but can I bear to think that, in screening 
you, I am sending my own brother to the scaffold ?” 

“All this has nothing to do with me, Jean Machu, the 
thief and convict; what matters it who I am? remember 
who you are. My identity was lost in confession; you 
have promised, you must keep your promise." 

“Are you altogether pitiless ?" cried the priest. 

“ Listen, if your brother’s head doesn’t fall, mine will. 
I must defend my own life. I always stick to that 
through thick and thin, and I stick to it so closely that 
there’s no use disputing about the matter. You will 
not speak. I will be outside the prison every day, and 
you will not follow me any more. I will be present in 
the court on the day of the trial, and you will be silent." 

“ But if I were to give you the means of flight, of going 
to America? If I were to double the amount of money 
which you stole, would you confess your crime ? A 
letter from you to the. magistrates would procure an 
acquittal, and you could save my brother, without en- 
dangering yourself." 


A NEW MISFORTUNE. 1 35 

“ I could not,” said Machu, “ on account of the extra- 
! dition.” 

j “Then my brother is irrevocably lost.” 

“Why, I thought,” said Rat-de-Cave mockingly, “that 
you depended on the justice of God.” I 

“To it I submit,” said the priest; “nor do I question 
it.” 

Jean Machh stopped. 

“ See here,” said he, “ there is no use prolonging this in- 
terview. You are sworn to silence. Keep your promise.” 

“ I swore to be silent before the people, before the 
magistrates, the judge and jury, and that oath I have 
kept in spite of all my sufferings. But I did not promise 
that I would not make a last appeal to him who alone 
had power to release me from this oath. Listen, Jean 
Machu, the religion which I teach and profess must 
indeed be great and sublime to bind me to such obedi- 
ence. Then, in the name of that faith, in the name of 
the God whom I serve, I promise you complete forget- 
fulness, the pardon of my divine Master, and even the 
indulgence of men. My brpther is only twenty-three. 
He bears a name hitherto honorable. My sister is an 
angel upon earth, and we are all disgraced for you.” 

“Oh, yes, I understand perfectly,” said Jean Machu; 
“ it matters little for me, the escaped convict, the hard- 
ened criminal, who will fall into the clutches of the law 
sooner or later, for some other crime; who has passed 
through the galleys, and belongs in advance to the 
gallows. Ah, well, perhaps that is just why I cling so 
fiercely to the few years or months or days of life which 
yet remain to me. I have more money than I ever had 
in my life. I want to enjoy it, to wallow in luxury like 
a hog, to revel in pleasure. After that, Chariot * can do 


* The executioner. 


136 


IDOLS. 


what he likes with me, and then it will be time for your 
sermons. Till then, to be plain with you, Mr. priest, you 
must not know me.” 

Sulpice clung to the wretch’s clothes. 

“Ah,” said he, “it must be my fault. I have not 
explained things clearly. You do not understand my 
terrible anguish, the struggle which is consuming my 
very soul. Have pity, have pity on me! I do not think 
I ever injured any one in my life. I have lived for the 
poor and for God. Ah, see I am at your feet, praying, 
weeping; give me my brother’s life, my brother’s life!” 

Jean Machu tried to extricate himself from the priest’s 
grasp, but the latter, knowing well that no second op- 
portunity would ever occur, held on with the energy of 
despair. 

The wretch’s anger, hitherto counterbalanced by a 
feeling of mingled pity and admiration, at last got the 
better of the other sentiments so foreign to his nature. 
He no longer beheld in Sulpice the man who was saving 
him by his silence, but one who was troubling and annoy- 
ing him. 

“ Let me go,” cried he, savagely, “some one is coming.” 

Jean Machu drew himself to his full height, put his 
feet firmly together, and with a sudden jerk backwards, 
shook off the priest with his whole strength, and the 
latter fell heavily on the pavement. His head struck 
against the parapet of the quay, and the blood gushed 
out. Jean Machu took to his heels, and ran from the 
spot with all possible speed. 


THE TRIAL. 


137 


CHAPTER X. 

The Trial. 

A DENSE crowd had gathered around the court-house. 
The streets in its vicinity were packed with a curious 
throng; all the efforts of the police only succeeded in 
keeping a narrow passage for carriages and other vehi- 
cles. The court, the grand staircase, the halls and lobbies 
presented an unusually lively appearance on this day, 
when the court was expected to sit, and to surpass in 
interest a drama of the Boulevard. 

The presiding judge had been fairly persecuted with 
applications for tickets of admission. Within the hall 
were to be seen numerous representatives of the very 
best Parisian society. One foreign ambassador had 
begged them to keep him an arm-chair. The Minister 
of Justice had announced his intention of being present; 
the ushers had to double the row of chairs usually 
reserved for distinguished guests. Never had so many 
professors and students of law assembled to hear so 
thrilling a case. Many were the strategies employed, 
and several young men borrowed a friend’s cap and 
gown to secure themselves a place on the benches of the 
court-room. The holders of red tickets ostentatiously 
displayed them, while others held on to their button- 
hole or even their hat, with an alacrity rarely seen any- 
where outside of a steeple-chase. 

Chase had in truth been made after tickets for the past 
eight days. Besides the privileged ones who had tickets, 
an eager multitude filled the staircases, halls, lobbies, 
even the court-yard outside; workingmen and women. 


38 


IDOLS. 


tradespeople, pale, sickly children, all crowded about 
the place, discussing the Pomereul family, the nature of 
the crime, and the improbability of the prisoner’s ac- 
quittal. 

Many of the workmen from the factory at Charenton 
had come thither to give another proof of their interest 
and attachment to the family of their old master. None 
of them felt any great sympathy for Xavier. They re- 
membered him as cold and haughty towards themselves; 
an idler and a spendthrift; in fact they hardly knew him. 
But Antoine Pomereul, whose name was on every lip, 
together with Sulpice and Sabine, still claimed their 
warmest affection and gratitude. As soon as it became 
known in the crowd that this little group of men had 
known the murdered man and his children they were 
immediately surrounded, and plied with questions as to 
the crime and its melancholy probabilities. 

“ Do you. think,” asked a woman, Mile. Pomereul will 
be at the trial ?” 

“Ah, she is an angel,” said Blanc-Cadet; “and she will 
be there if she dies of shame.” 

“ And the priest ?” 

“ Ah, that is another thing. He will not appear.” 

“ Why, does he disown his brother ?” 

“Then you don’t know all that has happened,” said 
Blanc-Cadet. 

“ Has anything else happened in that house ?” 

“A terrible thing,” said Blanc-Cadet, impressively; 
“and is connected with the other affair, too. Some one 
tried to kill the Abbe Sulpice.” 

“To kill him!" cried several voices. 

“ Oh, yes, it was hushed up in the papers, out of pity 
for the wretch who did it; the Abbe Sulpice refused 
to denounce him. But one night, about twelve o’clock, 
the poor priest was brought home in a carriage, un- 


THE TRIAL. 


139 


conscious, and with his head split open. A passer-by 
found him lying on the pavement. Of course the para- 
pet had blood on it, and the abbe may have struck his 
head in falling. But every one knows very well that it 
j was not an accident. As soon as he came to, they ques- 
tioned him, but he only said, ‘ I fell.’ Since then his brain 
has been wandering, and he raves and raves, or keeps 
such a silence that it is sadder than any raving.” 

“ There seems to be some misfortune in that family,” 
said an old man. 

“Just think what a burden Mile. Sabine has to bear. 
She watched beside her brother every night except two, 

I when M. Pomereul’s former secretary took her place. I 
used to think that young chap selfish, but since his mas- 
ter’s death he is all devotion. It is true, besides thanking 
him, they presented him with six months’ salary; but 
even so, it is not every young man in Marc Mauduit’s 
' place that would take such trouble about the abbe’s 
health.” 

“ But won’t his testimony be needed, and wouldn’t it 
' help his brother ?” said a woman. 

“ Well, well, God wants to keep the secret to Himself, 

! I suppose,” said Blanc-Cadet. “ But, if I was the judge. 
I’d do as I have read in books they used to do in old 
' times. I’d bring the man of the woods into court.” 

“ Lipp-Lapp ? ” said a child, eagerly. 

“Yes, just Lipp-Lapp,” said the old man. “You’ve 
got his name sure enough. A worthy^ beast, who was 
almost killed defending his master, the doctor who 
cured him is an excellent man, and if I belonged to the 
[ ‘ Society for the Protection of Animals,’ I’d give him a 
I medal, so I would. But, as I say, I’d bring Lipp-Lapp 
! into court. I’d show him the knife which the murderer 
j used, and I’d say to him as they say to the hounds, 
I ‘ Catch him.’ And if, when he came face to face with the 


140 


IDOLS. 


prisoner, the man of the woods didn’t strangle him, I’d 
swear that M. Xavier was innocent.” 

“ Ha, ha !” laughed a bystander, “ that would be too 
funny. It reminds one of Jocko, or the monkey of Brazil.” 

‘‘ It would be contrary somewhat to the dignity of the 
court,” said another. 

“Oh, well,” said Blanc-Cadet, “the dog of Montargis 
disturbed the dignity of the ‘judgment of God.’ And 
that was as good a court as this any day. I maintain 
that if Lipp-Lapp alone knows the truth, Lipp-Lapp 
alone should be asked for it.” 

“ And why not the Abbe Pomereul ?” said a voice. 

“ But he wasn’t there,” replied Blanc-Cadet. 

“ He knows everything,” said an old man. 

“ How could he ?” asked the other. 

“Well,” said the old man, “ I have followed all the trials 
at the court, and I am hardly ever mistaken, and mark 
my words, he knows all about it.” 

“Why doesn’t he tell it then?” asked Blanc-Cadet. 

“ Perhaps he can’t,” said the other. 

“ What would prevent him from -declaring it to the 
court, and saving his brother ?’* 

“ Oh, well, he’s a priest, and some way or another they 
might have bound him to keep silent,” said the old man. 

“ But his brother ?” 

“ As for that,” cried the other, “ if it was himself, he’d 
have to keep silent just the same.” 

“That would be horrible !” cried a woman. 

“ Of course it would,” said the man, “ but heroic and 
grand for all that. It would show what the secrecy 
promised by the priest is worth. Things like this hap- 
pening from time to time keep the people’s faith alive. 
If it be so, though, I think the Abbe Sulpice as great a 
martyr as any that we read of in the, Lives of the Saints” 

This idea, started by the old man, spread like wild-fire 


THE TRIAL. 


141 


through the eager, breathless multitude. It produced a 
feeling of profound commiseration for all concerned, and 
deepened the interest which already centred around this 
mysterious case; and the regret became greater and 
greater that the Abbe Sulpice was unable to give his 
testimony. 

When the great clock struck eleven, the soldiers who 
kept guard below, and regulated the admission to the 
court-room, stood back a moment as the ushers threw 
open the doors, and the crowd rushed in like a torrent 
which has burst all barriers. The reserved places, and 
the space without the barrier, kept for those who had 
no tickets, were simultaneously filled. The law-students 
mounted to their places on the benches, and the report- 
ers seated themselves at their desks, some describing the 
appearance of the audience, and others preparing to 
stenograph the trial in extenso. 

Women took out their opera-glasses to see whom they 
knew in the stalls. They exchanged smiles, while the 
men saluted each other by a wave of the hand. The cos- 
tumes were for the most part dark, but rich and elegant. 
It was a play to be sure, but of such a character that 
costumes of neutral tints were in the best taste. The 
lawyers discussed the case among themselves in an audi- 
ble voice, some condemning Xavier in advance, others 
defending him energetically. Every one looked forward 
tt) hearing Leon Renaut’s defence, his fervid eloquence, 
and the replies of the much dreaded Solicitor-General. 
Near the benches for the lawyers sat some members of 
Xavier’s club, smiling and careless, looking round them 
glass in eye. Foremost was the Count de Monjoux, in- 
dulging in reminiscences of the fine suppers he had had 
with young Pomereul. Taken in general, this assem- 
blage of curious people in the court-room seemed rather 
as if awaiting the rising of the curtain, than sitting in 


142 


IDOLS. 


expectation of a death sentence against a fellow crea- 
ture. 

All at once a sound as of the murmur of voices was 
heard in the adjoining room. The door was thrown 
open by two attendants, and the sonorous voice of the 
usher proclaimed, 

“Hats off, gentlemen! the Court.” 

A sudden death-like silence followed the solemn en- 
trance of the magistrates. The judges took each his 
place behind the great table covered with green cloth, 
upon which were piled huge bundles of papers. On a 
separate table were the deeds of indictment, numbered 
and sealed. The jury next appeared, each answering to 
his name, and then the judge gave orders for the intro- 
duction of the prisoner. Men and women rose tumul- 
tuously, and every eye was fixed upon Xavier Pomereul. 
He appeared between two gendarmes. He had sum- 
moned up all his fortitude for that moment of entering 
the court-room. He was deathly pale. His hands 
worked nervously, and as he took his seat in the dock 
he scarcely heard Leon Renaut’s whispered words of 
encouragement The cruel, staring, eager crowd be- 
wildered him, as the noisy pack bewilders the stag. He 
felt too well that to every tear which he might shed a 
cruel taunt would respond. He made a violent effort, 
and steeled his face to immobility, whilst the lawyer 
looked over his notes and deeds. Xavier, questioned -by 
the judge as to his name, surname, and condition, replied 
in a voice scarcely audible. The clerk then began to 
read the accusation. Its logic was overwhelming. It 
was written in a sober, sedate fashion, by a man of tried 
integrity, with rare talent as a dialectician. Every point 
of the accusation was laid down with mathematical pre- 
cision. Hearing it, there seemed no argument, left for 
the defence, and not even a single objection to offer to 


THE TRIAL. 


143 


that clear, concise statement, dictated neither by hatred 
nor prejudice. 

Aware of his own innocence, Xavier was nevertheless 
completely overwhelmed by the force of the accusation. 
Thenceforth his mind entered upon a new phase. He 
seemed no longer the party concerned in all this; it was 
not his life, his future, which was being decided, but the 
existence of another. From being an actor in that 
terrible scene, the denouement of the bloody drama of 
the Chaussee d’Antin, he became merely a spectator. 
His forced composure gave place to a sort of morbid 
curiosity. He asked himself what must be the fate of a 
man accused in such fashion, and forgot that his own 
life hung in the balance. 

For a moment he thought of giving up the defence. 
Where was the use ? His brother, who alone possessed 
the knowledge which could save him, was hindered from 
disclosing it. God did not will that his innocence should 
be made known. At least he could show the vulgar 
courage of dying well. 

Meantime a lady in deep mourning appeared. M. 
Renaut recognized her and offering his arm led her to 
a seat near the prisoner. She raised her veil and shov/ed 
the face of Sabine. It was deadly pale, and sorrow had 
written dark lines about the eyes. But it still retained, 
in' spite of anguish, the imprint of her own pure and 
gentle nature. She could not speak to Xavier, but she 
gave him a look which seemed to say, 

“For our sake, if not for your own, defend yourself, 
plead your innocence. Remember our hondr is at stake.” 

The sight of Sabine revived Xavier’s courage. He 
drew himself together, looked firmly and bravely, but 
without bravado, at the audience. The women seemed 
touched by his youth and his comely appearance, and 
Sabine attracted general compassion. 


144 


IDOLS. 


The witnesses were summoned. Each one related 
what little they knew of the matter. The doctor made 
his purely scientific deposition, and Sabine was called. 
The young girl advanced trembling to the bar, and spoke 
in a clear, musical voice of Xavier, at some length, before 
the presiding judge had the heart to interrupt her. She 
spoke of' their happy youth, their friendship, of her 
father’s great love for Xavier, which had made him 
weak. She touched briefly upon the dark morning when 
she had seen her father’s corpse, and learned that Xavier 
had been taken away from home, and wound up by 
saying, 

“Would Xavier have dared to look me in the face if 
he had murdered our father ? The affection he shows 
me, and his caresses, are the surest proof of his inno- 
cence.” 

The Abbe Sulpice was then called for form’s sake; the 
doctor came forward declaring him quite incapable of 
appearing. The presiding judge then bade the other 
judges and jury remark that his written deposition con- 
tained all that he would have said, and it was read. The 
testimony being thus ended, it behooved the attorney- 
general to speak. Contrary to the usual custom of 
solicitors-general, he did not commence by showing 
society shaken to its very base, and tottering, if the head 
of the accused were not sacrificed to law and justice. 
Disdaining these commonplaces, he took Xavier limb 
from limb, and totally ignoring his denial of the charge, 
overpowered him with proofs, showed him his punish- 
ment in all its horrors, and ended by saying: 

“You despised honest work which made your father 
rich and respected; you despised the virtue which made 
your home a sanctuary. You allowed evil passions to 
take hold of you in the very flower of your youth, so 
that, from an idler and spendthrift, you became vicious, 


THE TRIAL. 


145 


and ended by descending to the level of burglars and 
midnight assassins. There is no pity for you who have 
despised the example of ,such a brother as yours. Ask 
mercy and pardon of that God, who would have par- 
doned even Judas had Judas repented, but from men 
expect only justice, implacable justice, which throws over 
you in anticipation the dark pall of a parricide.” ' 

Sabine hid her face in her hands. Leon Renaut 
pressed the hand of the accused, murmuring, 

“ Keep up your courage, it is my turn now.” 

The young lawyer’s powerful eloquence was of that 
kind which, without resorting to oratorical tricks, pro- 
duced splendid and unforeseen results. His talents were 
well known, and people loved to hear his impassioned 
imagery, which took such a hold upon them. His past 
victories on the judicial battle-ground were cited, for he 
had saved criminals and gained when all seemed lost. 
But on this occasion, though no doubt existed in the 
minds of the audience as to Renaut’s reputation as an 
orator, no one had any hope that it would suffice to pro- 
cure Xavier’s acquittal. Before the summing up, the 
audience were already convinced of Xavier’s guilt, but 
after the discourse of the attorney-general, scarcely a 
single partisan for the accused remained. M. Renaut 
fully understood this, and rising impetuously he began; 

“Gentlemen of the bench and of the jury, I see before 
me judges. where I looked for witnesses. I hear a pas- 
sionate, virulent accusation, and I demand proofs. You 
bring before me a deplorable scene — the blood of an old 
man, shed at midnight. I crave only day and open air; 
you intensify the darkness, and I want light.” 

It seemed to the audience as if a portion of the dark- 
ness were already being dispelled. The lawyer’s very 
tones were so convincing, his gestures so full of author- 
ity, his face bearing a look of such sincere conviction. 


146 


IDOLS. 


that many of those present forgot how, a moment before, 
their opinion of Xavier had seemed irrevocable. 

“This whole case, gentlemen,” he continued, “ is en- 
shrouded in mystery. You see but one criminal, I see 
two. You repeat that the deposition of the Abbe Sulpice 
should suffice, and I cry out that it does not satisfy me. 
You show me in this witness a priest, and I demand a 
man who holds the key to this terrible drama. A saint 
who is unquestionably bound to silence by the obliga- 
tions of his dread ministry, and a senseless being who 
in the order of creation is mute; an angel and a beast; 
the one bound by his oath to a silence like that of the 
grave, the other a poor brute, condemned to everlasting 
silence. Yet Lipp-Lapp who was severely wounded by 
the murderer; Lipp-Lapp who defended himself, and in 
whose clenched fist was found a handful of the murderer’s 
hair; Lipp-Lapp saw it all. You point to the accused 
and you say, ‘He opened his father’s safe, therefore he 
must have killed him.’ And I say that he did not even 
rob him. Since when has temptation become an actual 
crime ? He tells you that, when in the very act of com- 
mitting a crime, he raised his eyes to the portrait of his 
dead mother, and drew back in shame and horror, flying 
from the room. No, this prodigal did not kill his father; 
during that night of murder and of mourning he was shed- 
ing tears of bitter repentance, and at the very turning- 
point of his career, at his very entrance upon a new way, 
you cast him into a felon’s cell and call him — parricide. 
Ah, gentlemen, take care; it is not the first time I have 
had the honor of addressing you; it is not the first strug- 
gle I have made for the innocent, against the law, whose 
mission it is to protect outraged society, but which, with- 
out ever diverging from its end, sometimes goes astray 
in the means; never, never, did the cause of a prisoner 
seem more just to me than this one; never have I so much 


THE TRIAL. 


147 


desired to convince you that my client is not a murderer, 
but a deeply wronged and suffering man. My God, my 
God ! do You no longer work miracles, or will You not 
send thither, armed with full power to reveal the truth, 
the man who alone can do so? From suffering, aberra- 
tion of mind, from the very jaws of death itself, it would 
seem to me that the Abbe Sulpice must appear before 
us.” 

“ I am here,” said a feeble voice beside him. 

To the amazement of every one the Abbe Sulpice in- 
deed appeared suddenly in the doorway leading to the 
witness-stand. A murmur of compassion was heard in 
the court. 

The Abbe Sulpice, feeble and tottering, wearing his 
loose black cassock unconfined by any belt, his face as 
pale as a corpse, seemed like one summoned from the 
grave. A red mark divided his white forehead in two, 
and this scar, still fresh and bleeding, gave him a strange 
resemblance to one of the early martyrs. Sabine arose 
and made a step towards him. But his eyes were fixed 
upon Xavier. 

Seeing his brother thus coming, as it were, from the 
verge of the grave to defend him, a sudden ray of hope 
entered the prisoner’s heart. His eyes, dilated, feverish^ 
red and burning, were fixed upon Sulpice in ardent sup- 
plication, seeming to ask of him at once his honor, his 
life, here and in eternity. This dramatic entrance con- 
cluded Leon Renaut’s appeal. The greatest emotion 
was displayed by the jury, and the reporters wrote some 
rapid fines descriptive of the effect produced by this in- 
cident. The presiding judge declared that by an exer- 
cise of his discretionary power, he would hear the Abbe 
Sulpice’s testimony. The hapless prisoner, clutching at 
the bar, grew paler and paler, seeming to fairly totter. 

And how all this had come about was as follows: For 


148 


IDOLS. 


more than a month the young priest had been a prey to 
acute physical suffering. His mind had wandered in 
delirium, and lost sight of reality. On the very evening 
previous to the trial, the doctor had declared his almost 
certain conviction that he would never recover his rea- 
son. But that morning Sulpice had felt the darkness 
which enshrouded his mind gradually being dispelled, 
he strove to remember all that had happened. Sitting 
up, and pressing his hands to his forehead, he tried to 
collect his thoughts. An incident occurred to assist him. 
Lipp-Lapp, who, since the illness of his young master, 
had never left the room; poor Lipp-Lapp, who still 
dragged himself about, not having yet recovered his 
strength, had found upon the chimney-piece an old al- 
manac. Sitting upon a low stool, he was going over the 
figures with his long hairy fingers, and seemed as if de- 
ploring that he could not, like others, comprehend the 
sense of them. Wearied with his efforts, he arose, and 
noiselessly approached the bed, just when Sulpice, sitting 
up, was trying to recollect events and to recall the past. 
Lipp-Lapp, holding out the almanac to him, attracted 
his attention. He seized the card covered with dates, 
and his eye fell upon one to which the animal was acci- 
dentally pointing. Providence, how wonderful are Thy 
ways ! That date brought back the abbe’s wandering 
thoughts. 

“The eighteenth of August,” said he; “the eighteenth 
of August.” 

He looked round in a sort of vague, helpless way, then 
suddenly light broke in upon him. 

“Xavier,” exclaimed he; “Xavier!” 

He rang the bell, and Baptiste immediately appeared. 

“ Baptiste,” said he, “ where is Sabine ?” 

The old man bowed his head, but made no reply. 

“ She’s gone there ?” said Sulpice. 


THE TRIAL. 


149 


Baptiste made a gesture of assent. 

“Listen,” said Sulpice in a feeble voice, “I am going 
there too. Do not say no, for I will go even if it is my 
death.” 

“ Go, then, dear young master,” said the servant, burst- 
ing into tears, “and bring us back M, Xavier.” 

Sulpice took a few drops of cordial, and feeling strong- 
er, sent for a carriage. Baptiste and he got in and were 
driven to the court-house. The young priest proceeded 
at once to the witness box and appeared as we have 
seen. 

The deepest emotion was visible on every face. 

The plot seemed thickening. 

Xavier was for the moment forgotten. All eyes were 
turned upon that frail face with its bloody aureola. Pro- 
found silence reigned throughout the court. Every one 
felt that Xavier’s life hung upon his brother’s words. 

“You being a near relative of the accused,” said the 
judge, “I will not oblige you to take oath, being con- 
vinced that you will not speak one word contrary to the 
truth.” 

“Sir,” said Sulpice, “I will speak the truth.” 

And turning to his brother he said, 

“ Forgive me, that it cannot be the whole truth.” 

“ What have you to say to the court ?” asked the judge. 

“ My brother is innocent,” said the young priest, rais- 
ing his hands to an image of the Crucified which was 
directly in front of him. 

“ Can you prove it ?” asked the judge. 

“ On the night of the crime two men came to our 
house and asked to see me. They did not come up 
to my room, nor had they any need of me. It did not 
take them long to accomplish their purpose; the money 
stolen, the victim stricken, they were stealing out. The 
door of my father’s room had just closed after them 


IDOLS. 


150 

when I came in from a long drive. I suspected some- 
thing at first. But it was necessary for them to secure 
my silence. It was easy to deceive me, as they knew my 
mission was entirely among the poor and suffering. One 
of them told me that my ministry was required for a 
man whose soul was at stake, and I went with them.” 

“ Could you tell us where you were brought ?” asked 
the judge. 

“I could not,” said the priest, “and even if I did re- 
member I would have no right to make it known. When 
we arrived at a wretched house we went in, and im- - 
mediately one of these villains knelt down and under 
the seal of confession told me of the crime he had com- 
mitted.” 

“ Did you see that man’s face 
“I did.” 

“Would you know him again ?’* 

“ I knew him before.” 

“Under what circumstances did you know him ?” 

“ I once saved his life,” replied the priest, quietly. 

“ His name ?” asked the judge, “ or do you know it ?” 

“ I know it.” 

“ In that case one word will be sufficient to save your 
brother.” 

Sulpice clutched at the railing. 

“ That name I cannot reveal to the court. He, whose 
image you have placed upon yonder wall, forbids me. 
You must believe me upon the honor of a priest and the 
word of a Christian, but you must not ask for proofs; I 
cannot furnish them.” 

Judge and jury alike looked at him. 

Xavier who, in the agitation of new hope, had risen 
from his seat, fell backwards overwhelmed. Sabine 
sobbed aloud. 

Public sympathy had reached a climax. Some ad- 


THE TRIAL. 


151 

mired the Abbe Sulpice, others were amazed at his 
silence, not comprehending the inviolable secret which 
bound him. 

To Sulpice the judge said gravely, “The gentlemen of 
the jury will no doubt take what you have said into ac- 
count. It does not come within our province to urge 
you to betray alike your conscience and your God. Your 
duty is rigorous, but ours remains inexorable.” 

The attorney-general, fully understanding that the 
appearance of Sulpice, and the simple words by him 
spoken, had done more for the defence than the elo- 
quence of Leon Renaut, and unwilling that he should 
lose at any cost the cruel victory he had been on the 
point of gaining, arose to reply to the young lawyer, an- 
nihilating his fervent defence and endeavoring to efface 
the impression produced by the priest’s testimony. He 
no longer cared to display his talents and fine language, 
but his cutting voice, his brief, incisive words, his un- 
answerable arguments, followed each other in quick suc- 
cession like poisoned darts. He spoke of the Abbe Sul- 
pice in terms of the highest praise, but briefly touched 
upon the illness from which he was 'scarce recovering. 
He declared that the confession of two mysterious men 
in an unknown house was undoubtedly one of the fever- 
ish visions of his delirium, and concluded by a scathing 
condemnation of the parricide. Sulpice was near Sabine, 
but unlike her, he heard, upon his knees, the terrible 
words of the attorney-general, realizing that he was 
henceforth powerless to save his brother. Leon Renaut 
again rose, but every one felt that his confidence in him- 
self was weakened. He knew, in fact, that if Sulpice’s 
deposition did not save Xavier it would injure him, 
seeming like the stratagem of a brother to deceive the 
jury and gain the sympathy of the house, by a plan pre- 
concerted, perhaps, with the lawyer himself. 


152 


IDOLS. 


The jury retired, and Xavier was removed by the gen- 
darnies. Meanwhile the spectators were divided into 
two parties: the one believed what the Abbe Pomereul 
had said and demanded Xavier’s acquittal; the other 
shook their heads saying, 

“ You see it is merely a lawyer’s strategy. Would con- 
fession be of any importance in such a case ? Of course 
he would save his brother and let religion go.” 

Every one was busy discussing the attorney-general’s 
speech and the eloquence of the young lawyer. Friends 
sought each other out, for must they not in some way 
pass the time while the jury was deliberating? It seemed 
to augur well for the accused that they were so un- 
decided. After an absence of an hour and a half they 
returned. Then in a tremulous voice, amid a death- 
like silence, the foreman read the decision of his col- 
leagues: 

“Xavier Pomereul was guilty, but beyond all doubt 
the priest’s testimony must be taken into account, and 
a plea for extenuating circumstances be admitted.” 

It was the only means of saving Xavier from the pen- 
alty of death, the only means of giving Providence time 
to work out its end. A murmur of astonishment greet- 
ed the foreman’s fatal decision, and when Xavier was 
brought in he might have guessed his fate at once from 
the appearance of every one. But he saw nothing, his 
eyes were fixed upon the judges while he awaited the 
reading of his sentence. When he heard the words, “ has 
been found guilty,” he burst into tears, and when sen- 
tence was pronounced, “hard labor for life,” he mur- 
mured, 

“ Far better death.” 

“ No, Xavier, no, my brother,” cried Sulpice, trying to 
take his brother’s hand, “ for God will permit light to 
come upon the darkness, and you will yet be free ” 


THE TRIAL. 


153 


But with a gesture of abhorrence Xavier threw him 
off, crying, 

“ You, who might have saved me and would not, I dis- 
own you.” 

The judge then asked, “ Have you anything to say 
why sentence should not be passed upon you ?” 

Xavier answered, “ I am innocent ! I am innocent !” 

Sabine fell into Sulpice’s arms, as Xavier was being 
led away. 

“ Ah, poor martyr !” she said, “ who will console you 
in such an ordeal ?” 

Sulpice pointed to the picture of the crucified God. 

“ He will,” said he. 

And, assisted by Leon Renaut, he returned home with 
his sister in the carriage which had brought him. 


154 


IDOLS. 


CHAPTER XL 
The Dream Ended. 

The studio occupied by Benedict Fougerais was on 
the ground floor. of the house, No. ii Boulevard de Clichy, 
which had been honored by numbering among its ten- 
ants at one time Jacque, the painter of fishes, and Diaz, 
the brilliant colorist. His studio was spacious, and fur- 
nished in severely classical style, to harmonize with the 
character of him who passed his life there. The draper- 
ies were dark red, showing to the best advantage the 
whiteness of the marble, the sombre tint of the bronzes, 
and the softened lustre of the burnished silver. 

On a carved oaken buffet stood vases in bold relief, a 
lava plaque, painted by Joseph Devers, in imitation of 
one of those marvels of Lucca della Robbia, whose tra- 
ditions it faithfully followed. Two highly-colored pic- 
tures, the tints of which were mellowed by time, hung 
upon the panels at either side. On pedestals covered 
with velvet draperies were the works of the artist, well 
placed, each in its peculiar light, and dis|)layed to the 
utmost advantage. Vainly did one seek in this sanctu- 
ary of art the much-lauded conceptions of Pradier, 
Clodion’s nymphs, or any of the works of that school, 
which, for want of an ideal, becomes realistic, and the 
decay of which is disguised by a word unknown to the 
ancients. 

To be realistic is to make no use of what we find in 
the works of God, and which His Providence has given 
us, that we may add thereunto the inspiration of genius; 
it is to choose the low in preference to the beautiful — to 
give interpretation to what is base and expression to 


THE DREAM ENDED. 1 55 

what is vile; for vile is the only word to express such 
degeneracy. 

To belong to the realistic school means to produce 
no more such faces and figures as were sculptured by 
Michael Angelo upon mausoleums, or admitted by the 
popes into the great basilica, St. Peter’s. The “ Night 
and Day” of that master would not represent, according 
to the idea of the realists, the human form in its whole 
strength, draped merely in its own chastity. The art- 
ists of our day have brought into art a certain profligacy 
of conception — the licentiousness of the times. They 
work no longer for temples, but for drawing-rooms. 
Their work is trivial, commonplace, and unwholesome. 
But such art pays. It gives the artist at once money 
and a certain ready fame. None of these groups, heads, 
or basso-relievi will live; but the artist of to-day does 
not' look beyond the present. He is indifferent to im- 
mortality, as he is skeptical of a future life. His faith 
in art is as dead as his religious belief. For him there 
is no God in heaven, and on his path of life no sublime 
poetry. There are some noble exceptions among the 
modern artists, who stand out from the groups of realists, 
either through', pure love of thQ antique, or through a 
higher and worthier motive. 

When Benedict Fougerais left off making designs for 
clocks and ornaments for M. Pomereul, he entered the 
studio of a member of the Institute, whose reputation 
was perhaps not yet equal to his solid merit. Jules Au- 
tran was a master at once kind and severe, and it was 
thanks to him that Benedict succeeded in finishing his 
artistic education. 

He studied history, of which so many artists remain 
in' ignorance; he devoted himself to archaeology and 
numismatics, and all the branches of sculpture and archi- 
tecture as practised by the ancients, whose works inspire 


156 


IDOLS. 


in us. at once admiration for their genius and a feeling 
of our own impotence. He studied the lives of those 
great artists of the middle ages and the period of the 
Renaissance, and drew thence this conclusion, that be- 
fore becoming artists whose fame was to astonish the 
world, they had been men. 

Without aspiring to equal such a master as Leo- 
nardo da Vinci, who reached a high degree of excel- 
lence in various arts, and could fortify a city with the 
same skill with which he produced a picture like the 
Holy Family of Francis I.; without ever hoping to at- 
tain such an eminence as the sculptor, Benvenuto Cel- 
lini, who carved a gem with the same hand that painted 
the Perseus, Benedict labored to acquire various kinds 
of knowledge, convinced that all arts and sciences tend 
to complete e^ch other. 

He never frittered away his time in idleness, as do 
so many artists, under pretence of seeking an inspiration, 
while they enervate themselves by the use of tobacco in 
every shape and form. He did not think it necessary to 
form exaggerated theories of art, and become, in conse- 
quence, the lion of a circle of petty admirers. He re- 
mained in his studio, and when he felt that his hand 
was not faithfully interpreting his thought, he did not 
try to force it, but turned to some useful and yet relax- 
ing study. His friends were all of the best type. He 
did not care for conversation of such a kind as to dis- 
turb the harmony existing between his conceptions and 
his execution. 

For, if gayety is a relaxation to the mind, licen- 
tiousness only troubles and disturbs it. So Benedict’s 
friends belonged to the unhappily small class of literary 
men — journalists and artists — who resolutely set thetn- 
selves against the too general immorality of the day. 
Closely united, they formed a brave little band, who de- 


THE DREAM ENDED. 


157 


pended upon each other for support and protection. Why 
does this sort of good-fellowship so seldom exist, except 
among those who are rather the brigands, the bravi^ of 
art than its apostles ? The followers of that camp op- 
posed to such as Benedict are, in their individuality, 
protected, upheld, and sustained in a manner quite dif- 
ferent from their adversaries. 

The painter, poet, sculptor, or author, who is earnest, 
moral, and Christian, finds himself alone and isolated. 
Far from seeking each other out, assisting each other, 
and fraternizing, such men seem to lack either that fra- 
ternal feeling or the necessary attraction. They do not 
seem to realize that, if they wished, they could form 
themselves into a serried column as well as their antag- 
onists. 

Two powerful incentives kept Benedict firm in the 
way he had chosen: one was his faith, upon which the 
cold wind of doubt had never blown; the other was his 
attachment to Sabine. His gratitude to her father was 
somehow mingled and, as it were, diffused in the deep, 
pure affection with which he regarded Sabine. He en- 
tertained for her much the same species of respect and 
admiration which Dante felt for Beatrice, and Petrarch for 
Laura, and which gave to poetry “ La Divina Commed- 
dia” and the “ Canziones.” Without directly confessing 
that she was the end and aim of his efforts, the young 
sculptor had never dreamed of offering the fame or 
fortune he might achieve to any other than the mer- 
chant’s daughter. 

He told himself repeatedly that the rich heiress 
would no doubt despise the poor youth who owed his 
very livelihood to the charity of her father; but he con- 
soled himself by the thought that M. Pomereul had 
himself known poverty, struggled with privation, and 
considered it his bounden duty to protect those who 


158 


IDOLS. 


fought the battle of life bravely, without weakness or 
presumption. 

On the day when he brought the statuette of Stein- 
bach’s Sabine to his master’s house, Benedict felt that his 
fate was to be then and there decided. ’ If the young girl, 
with her father’s consent, accepted this long-cherished 
work of his, she would likewise consent to become his 
wife. Ah! how he had trembled for the result, and 
how great had been his joy when M. Pomereul held out 
a hand of welcome to him, and called him son. 

Thenceforth he had believed his fate certain — his hap- 
piness secured. With Sabine for his wife he could never 
go astray, he could never fail. The thought of her had 
sustained him during the five laborious years of his 
early youth, and strengthened him in his manhood’s 
riper age. She had been his hope and his conscience, 
and she was to be his model and his aim in life. If ever 
a man was happy it was Benedict on the night of his 
betrothal. His happiness seemed so pure, so complete, 
so certain ! Only a few days must elapse till the girl, 
who raised her eyes so frankly to his face, would be his 
wife. He saw her, in anticipation, in the studio on the 
Boulevard de Clichy, seated beside him while he worked, 
praising or criticising by turns. He imagined them at 
evening forming part once more of the family circle, 
where Sulpice’s gentle austerity never interfered with the 
general gayety. 

What courage and what strength the title of hus- 
band would give Benedict ! He would no longer have 
to think and act for himself alone. He would be re- 
sponsible for the happiness of that dear one whose des- 
tiny M. Pomereul had confided to him with so noble a 
confidence, accepting industry and affection from him as 
his only wealth. 

Yes, Benedict was happy that night. And when he 


THE DREAM ENDED. 


159 

slept his dreams brought before him again loved faces, 
and the echo of their gladsome words. 

A thunderbolt fell upon his hopes and his happiness. 
M. PomereuTs murder, in itself, was to him a source of 
the deepest grief. He had never known his own father, 
and his filial affection had centred upon this man who 
had been his benefactor. Hastening to the house of 
mourning, he had been given the farther intelligence 
which made his sorrow two-fold. Not only had the hon- 
ored head of the family fallen by the hand of an assas- 
sin, but an accusation was made against the brother of 
the woman who was so soon to be his wife. 

Benedict was well aware of Xavier’s follies, but he 
never believed the accusation even for an instant. He 
trusted the wretched boy blindly, overwhelmed as he 
was by circumstances, and caught in the meshes of a 
net from which naught, as it seemed, could deliver him. 
He not only interested in his behalf his best friend, Leon 
Renaut, but he showed the prisoner a thousand little 
kindnesses and marks of affection which only the wretch- 
ed can fully appreciate. He was very little in sympathy 
with the worthless life Xavier had been leading, and 
even felt a sort of dislike towards the frequenters of low 
theatres and other fashionable haunts of vice, and would 
never have dreamed of making him a companion. But 
since the blow had fallen, and poor Xavier was branded 
as a parricide, he felt only the deepest sorrow for him, 
beholding in him the hapless victim of circumstances, 
and a deeply afflicted son. 

This -was a greater test of his affection than ten years 
of ordinary devotion. Benedict felt that he owed Sabine 
this proof of his love for her, and that by devoting him- 
self to Xavier’s cause, he would show in a way more 
convincing than words the depth and sincerity of his 
attachment. Imagine, therefore, his grief and disappoint- 


i6o 


IDOLS. 


merit when Sabine refused to see him during the whole 
time of Xavier’s trial. Of course, her mourning and her 
intense anxiety were sufficient reasons for her seclusion, 
and yet Benedict had won from Sabine herself, from M. 
Pomereul, and now from Sulpice, a sacred title, which 
should, he thought, have procured hirp. access to her. 

Was it just that he should be treated as a stranger in 
that house which was now in great part hers ? He 
accused her in his heart of coldness and indifference. 
He persuaded himself that she could not have the same 
deep love for him he had for her; not discouraged, how- 
ever, he determined to triumph over her indifference by 
increased devotion. 

So, unable to see Sabine, he devoted himself entirely 
to Xavier. He saw him every day, bringing new courage 
to that dejected soul, and if he did not succeed in soft- 
ening Xavier’s hard, rebellious nature, he at least kept 
alive his faith^in friendship. The sculptor’s visits, and 
those of Renaut and Sabine, were the prisoner’s only 
consolation. He rarely spoke of Sulpice, and when he 
did so it was almost with hatred. 

Incapable of understanding his brother, he accused 
him of cruelty. 

During the terrible scene at the court, the sculptor had 
not dared to approach Sabine, who sat as near as pos- 
sible to Xavier, but when Xavier, having heard his 
sentence, gave that one last despairing cry, “I am inno- 
cent!” it was Benedict who held him in his arms and 
supported him, for the gendarmes^ touched by the Scene, 
allowed Xavier that moment’s consolation. 

Next evening Benedict went to see Leon Renaut. 

“ Do you think Xavier will appeal to another court ?” 
he asked. 

“No,” said the lawyer, “he has positively refused.” 

“ And yet another court might — ” began Benedict. 


THE DREAM ENDED. 


l6l 


“ There is no use in hoping against hope, my friend,” 
said the lawyer; “ Xavier would have no chance before 
any jury.” 

“ So the unhappy boy must go to the convict-prison 
till he is transported ?” 

“He is in such a state of health,” replied Renaut, 
“ that it will be possible, I think, to have him kept where 
he is at present. We will meanwhile work to obtain 
some further concession. Public opinion is divided in 
his regard, some believing him to be the victim of a 
judicial error. He has been sentenced, it is true, but the 
sentence may not be enforced.” 

“ In the mean time, Leon,” said Benedict, “ I shall try 
to see Mile. Sabine.” 

“ Courage,” said Leon gently and half sadly. 

“ Why, do you fear that she will refuse ?” cried Bene- 
dict. 

“She is an angel,” said the lawyer, “and will, I fear, 
refuse to join your life to hers, or make you share her 
burden of sorrow.” 

“Ah!” said Benedict, “could she be so cruel ?” 

“ But she will suffer as much as you in that case,” said 
Leon. 

“Your anxiety agrees but too well with my own mis- 
givings,” said Benedict; “but I must learn my fate at 
once. Good by, Leon; I will be here to-night, if the 
blow which has stricken Xavier has not also killed my 
hopes.” 

The sculptor went out and proceeded to the Pomereul 
homestead. 

It was about eight o’clock in the evening. 

The passers-by on the Chaussee d’Antin saw no lights 
in any of the windows; that rich and elegant home seemed 
like a deserted house. Benedict asked if Mile. Pomereul 
was at home, and being answered in the affirmative, 


IDOLS. 


162 

went up the first stairs. He was met by Baptiste; he 
asked him to let his young mistress know that he was 
there, and inquire if she would receive him; the old ser- 
vant shook his head. 

“ I fear not, sir,” said he; “ Mile. Sabine’s way of act- 
ing frightens me. She neither speaks nor cries. She 
tries to keep up her strength, and meantime she seems 
frozen, going about the house like a spirit.” 

“ I must see her, Baptiste, do you understand ?” said 
Benedict, firmly. 

The old man bowed, opened the drawing-room door 
for Benedict, and went to Sabine’s apartments. He 
found her seated in a large arm-chair reading that book 
which is only less sublime than the Bible; she was seek- 
ing in the Imitation courage to bear her heavy cross. 
Dressed in black, her hair arranged with perfect neatness, 
but with no attempt at ornament, white as marble, and 
sad as the Pieta^ Sabine seemed a living image of grief. 
When Benedict’s name was mentioned, she put out her 
hand with a gesture as if imploring that he should be 
kept away, but with sudden resolution she rose quickly, 
murmuring, “ It is better, much better.” 

To Baptiste she said aloud, 

“I will see M. Fougerais presently in the drawing- 
room.” 

The servant disappeared. Left alone, Sabine went 
slowly over to the prie-dieu and knelt down. 

“Thou who hast suffered in thine agony alone,” she 
prayed, “give me strength to refuse the aid which is 
offered me. Like Simon of Cyrene he would share my 
cross. Grant, O Lord, that I may not accept this broth- 
erly help! Thou, who readest all hearts, knowest that in 
mine is no secret for which I should blush. My feeling 
for him, increased by gratitude and respect, is so deep 
and lasting that it can never be effaced. I must feign 


THE DREAM ENDED. 


163 


indifference to save him who claims the right to share 
my misery and disgrace, and I fear to betray myself. 
My God! I am but a woman sorely tried; do Thou prove 
me worthy of the title of Christian, and lead me if it 
must be to suffer all things.” 

Burning tears gushed from her eyes. She wiped 
them hurriedly away, rose, and with a firm step went 
down to the drawing-room. Benedict was standing near 
the organ upon which Sabine had played that even- 
ing of their betrothal. He was recalling that tender 
and touching scene with a vividness which made it 
present. Alas! scarcely two months had elapsed since 
then, and how long ago, how far off it all seemed. So 
absorbed was he in these recollections that he did not 
hear Sabine’s light step. When he raised his eyes she 
was standing before him with bowed head and clasped 
hands resting upon her heavy mourning dress. 

Sabine,” said he, ‘‘ dear Sabine.” 

A swift pang pierced her heart; fearing to betray her- 
self she turned away, and taking a chair was silent a 
moment. When she spoke it was in a cold, calm voice. 

“You wished to speak to me; well, I am ready to hear 
you.” 

“ Did you not expect me, Sabine ?” said he. 

“ If,” said she with an effort, “ I had expected you, I 
should have spared you the pain of this interview. I 
will now, however, do what I have heretofore neglected. 
As there is nothing farther to hope, I may as well put 
an end to farther illusions. Therefore, M. Fougerais, I 
release you from any tie which may bind you to me.” 

“ You release me !” cried Benedict, warmly and indig- 
nantly. “And how have I deserved such treatment? 
How have I lost your confidence and affection ? I un- 
derstand: your idea is that you fear to associate me in 
the affliction which has most undeservedly come upon 


164 


IDOLS. 


you. But the greater your trial, the greater my right to 
share it. You accepted me as your lover, your betrothed 
husband, when all your surroundings were happy and 
prosperous; you shall not cast me off now, when, as an 
orphan, you need an honorable man’s support and pro- 
tection.” 

“ I have my brother,” said Sabine, quietly. 

“ But the fact of his being a priest, and the duties 
thereby involved, separate you at almost every turn from 
the Abbe Sulpice. Besides, a brother’s love, howsoever 
strong and enduring, is not always sufficient. Ah ! you^ 
know me very little, Sabine, if you think that your af- 
fliction has not drawn me still nearer to you. I need 
not now repeat that, since I was old enough to dream of 
a future, it has always been with you and for you.” 

“I know,” said Sabine, in a low voice; “but still I 
repeat that I release you from your promise.” 

“ Do you fear that I hold you responsible for poor 
Xavier’s faults — too dearly expiated, alas ! by the sen- 
tence passed upon him ? But you will not be left alone 
in your misfortune. To me and to society belongs the task 
of alleviating Xavier’s condition, and working unceasing- 
ly to obtain your brother’s release. Xavier is my adopted 
brother; I shall never desert him any more than you 
should desert me. And even if an unjust world involves 
you in Xavier’s misfortune, what then ? We will brave 
it together. Leaning on me you will breast the fury of 
the storm. My affection shall be so tender and consid- 
erate that it will pass by and you will scarcely heed it. 
Sabine, give me this greatest proof of your confidence, 
and accept me as your husband. I have come to beg of 
you to make good your father’s promise.” 

Sabine did not speak for a moment, and there was 
silence, till Benedict said, 

“ Ah ! your silence chills me.” 


THE DREAM ENDED. 


165 

“ I am silent,” replied Sabine, who seemed as if cast- 
ing about for some mode of expression by which to crush 
Benedict’s hopes at one blow, “ because it is somewhat 
difficult for me to express what is in my mind, now that 
my father’s wishes no longer weigh upon me.” 

“ Weigh upon you !” cried Benedict. “ Did he ever 
attempt to persuade you in any way ?” 

“ Once only,” said Sabine, blushing. 

“What!” cried Benedict; “you mean to say that, on 
that day when I ventured to make known my secret 
hopes, and when they were encouraged in a manner so 
paternal, he did not leave you free ?” 

“ I was not consulted,” said Sabine, in a low voice. 

“ But still you did not refuse the husband whom he 
proposed to you ?” 

“ Such a refusal would have distressed my father,” said 
she. 

“ If left to yourself, I would not have been your own 
choice ?” cried Benedict. 

“ No,” said she, bowing her head. 

“Ah, stop, mademoiselle!” cried Benedict; “you are 
torturing me. But still I ask myself if it may not be 
some mad feeling of heroism which accounts for your 
conduct to-day ? Ah! do you not remember the even- 
ing of our betrothal ? You accepted from me my 
mother’s betrothal ring! You refused a dowry from 
your father, feeling certain that you could live by an 
artist’s work. Were your courage and your happiness 
alike a cruel farce of which I was the dupe, because I 
believed my dream to be reality ? Yet it seems to me 
that my heart could not have been deceived, and that I 
would neither have been so proud nor so happy. It 
seems to me that respect for your father’s will could 
never have forced you to give me that proof of maidenly 
confidence. Let there be no deception on your part. I 


IDOLS. 


1 66 

have worked for you; I have struggled for you. My 
whole ambition has been for you. You were my hope, 
and would be, I thought, my reward. I served Laban 
for the sake of Rachel. I kept myself free from all the 
follies and the temptations natural to my age that I 
might be worthy of you. I respected myself for the 
sake of your innocence and purity. If at times, seeing 
how easily my companions in art succeeded without real 
genius or industry, I felt tempted to do as they had 
done, arriving thus quickly at the goal of fame and for- 
tune, your image arose before me, and I persevered in 
the thorny way wherein, if my feet were bleeding, at 
least I planted no flower whose odor was death. Sa- 
bine, if you desert me, if you cast me off, what is left 
to me ?” 

“Your conscience,” answered she. 

“ May I not, in my despair, forget to hear its voice ?” 
said Benedict. 

“You think only of your own suffering, Benedict,” 
said Sabine, “ your regret for a young girl, your be- 
trothed for a single day, your companion in an idle 
dream; but I have to mourn my murdered father, my 
brother condemned to penal servitude.” 

“ I could wish you less strong, Sabine,” said Benedict; 
“for then you might feel the need of consolation.” 

“ The consolation which I crave cannot come from 
men,” said she. “I expect it from God alone.” 

“Cruel child !” said Benedict; “but if that sufiices for 
you, my heart has need of human sympathy.” 

“ Be then my brother,” said Sabine; “ my brother like 
Sulpice and Xavier.” 

“ And you will marry some one else ?” said he. 

“ I will never marry,” said she, extending her hand to 
him as she spoke. 

“No I” said he; “I reject so false a friendship — a 


THE DREAM ENDED. 


167 


worthless sentiment which in no wise responds to my 
aspirations, or the hope of my life. I accept my sen- 
tence: it is banishment; so be it ! Perhaps at some fu- 
ture time I may find the key to the enigma which just 
now I cannot understand.” 

“Good by,” said she, rising. 

As she turned away, she repeated, in a lower voice, 

“ Good by forever.” 

As she was leaving the room the Abbe Sulpice en- 
tered. At one glance he saw what had occurred, and Sa- 
bine, throwing herself into his arms, murmured, 

“ I told an untruth, but it was to save him.” 

The young priest spoke in a tone of authority and 
even severity. 

“ You have done wrong,” he said, “ Sabine, very wrong. 
You do not know what harm you may have done to a 
man so noble, brave, and generous.” 

Sabine paid no heed to his words. For once she dis- 
regarded the advice of her brother. She only whispered,' 
“ Console him ! console him !” and so saying hurried 
away. 

Sulpice went straight to Benedict. 

“ Brother,” said he, “ for you will remain my brother, 
try to be brave. Summon all your strength and man- 
hood. Who can tell whether Sabine may not — ” 

“ Do not speak of her !” cried Benedict. “ Her cold- 
ness and cruelty were the best proofs of what she said. 
In consenting to become my wife, she acted in obedience 
■^to her father’s wishes. Thank you, Sulpice; thank you. 

I will come sometimes that we may talk over the time 
when I believed she would be a link between us. Good 
by. I am only a man, and I must be alone to think it 
all over.” 

He wrung Sulpice’s hand, and hurried away. When 
he returned to his studio he felt ^ as if it were a grave. 


IDOLS. 


1 68 

The room, furnished with such exquisite taste, the sanc- 
tuary of art which he had arranged with so much care 
and patience, that he might one day receive Sabine 
there, seemed now to him like a temple shorn of its holy 
images. His own works, which he had hoped she would 
have admired, seemed unworthy of any praise. He who 
had hitherto been so confident began suddenly to doubt 
of his own life and his own merit. He asked himself if he 
had not been a presumptuous fool to spend his youth at 
such arduous toil, which had led to so cruel a disenchant- 
ment. 

He did not unite his weary soul with that of Christ, 
forsaken and suffering. His happiness, so suddenly over- 
clouded, seemed to have carried away his faith in the 
universal shipwreck. 

“Ah !” said he, in an outburst of self-pity and scorn, 
“ my friends were right enough when they laughed at 
my wisdom, sneered at my cold statues, declaring that 
inspiration was not to be found where I persisted in 
seeking it. I wanted only Sabine, forsaken by the world, 
disgraced by her brother’s sentence; but she has scorned 
and rejected me ! At first I thought she would be my 
ruin, but, perhaps, in reality, she has saved me. I am 
free at last. I am young. I have talent. During all 
my twenty-five years of life I have never drunk of the 
cup of pleasure. In it I shall now find forgetfulness.” 

Suddenly he broke down, hid his face in his hands, 
and sobbed aloud. 


AN ARTIST SUPPER. 


169 


CHAPTER XII. 

An Artist Supper. 

The war which France, with the greatest imprudence, 
had just declared against Prussia occupied every mind. 
Yet so great was the confidence in her own arms that no 
one doubted of ultimate success. Any one who ex- 
pressed the least anxiety as to her glory would have been 
deemed wanting in patriotism. The war was regarded 
in the light of a brilliant military campaign, to end by 
an entrance into the hostile capital. There was no ques- 
tion of obstacles to be surmounted on the way thither, 
of delusive hopes, still less of defeat. At the moment 
of departure, the triumphant return was already hailed. 

The Exposition of May, 1870, in spite of military -and 
political movements, the rise and depression of stocks, 
and the excitement of the war, was followed with re- 
markable interest. The art critics pursued their 7 ' 6 le 
with a strong reinforcement of sounding phrases, much 
more interested in showing their skill as writers than 
in the progress of art, or in that of the painter or sculp- 
tor who served as the theme for their brilliant essays. 

Still all the papers were unanimous in their praise of 
the work exhibited by Benedict Fougerais. It was not 
a work to attract the multitude, nor draw around it the 
admirers of the realistic school, but it was of such solid 
merit, and gave evidence of workmanship so scientific, 
that no one disputed its claim. 

Benedict’s group represented Religion trampling idols 
under foot; not idols of bronze, wood, or gold, which 
are called now Isis, now Jupiter, now Vishnu, or Brahma, 


I/O 


IDOLS. 


but living idols, to which every one offers sacrifice : 
Wealth, Pleasure, Glory. 

It was a grand and lofty idea, broad in its conception, 
sober in execution. 

In it the artist had followed the traditions of the mas- 
ters. The lines were severe, yet not stiff, the draperies 
supple and falling in graceful folds, while a scrupulous 
regard to anatomy was proof of long and patient study. 
The subject gave Benedict scope for great variety of 
form, expression, attitude. The love of gold was rep- 
resented by an old decrepit man, whose skin hung loose 
and shrivelled upon his bones, and who held in his arms 
sacks of gold; whilst with one hand he clutched a 
purse. This figure, by its perfect workmanship, defied 
criticism. 

Pleasure, under the form of a woman, had just thrown 
aside an empty cup, and was unstringing a necklace of 
precious stones. The expression of weariness and dis- 
gust upon the beautiful face, the drooping attitude, the 
draperies of the figure disordered by the sleep that fol- 
lows drunkenness, proved the versatility of Benedict’s 
chisel. 

Glory was represented by a king, crowned and en- 
compassed by crowns, trampling under foot the sceptres 
of other kings whom he had vanquished, and by the 
figure of a young man whose face bore the seal of in- 
spiration, but whose lyre was suddenly and premature- 
ly broken by death. 

To complete the base of the group were sheaves of 
arms, vases of flowers, arranged artistically, so as to 
throw their branches over the pedestal, preventing the 
too sudden transition from the Carrara of which the 
group was composed to the black marble of the pedes- 
tal. Standing with one foot upon the reclining figure of 
the woman, her hand outstretched towards the old man, 


AN ARTIST SUPPER. 


171 


as if condemning him to the torture of unassuaged de- 
sire, was Religion, her beautiful face raised to heaven as 
she displayed aloft the victorious Cross. It was a grand, 
pure face, the figure, somewhat larger than life, combin- 
ing angelic sweetness with majesty. 

This work showed the artist’s real power, and at once 
placed Benedict in the rank of those from whom much 
was to be expected. 

Benedict had been very happy while engaged upon 
this conception. Often did he exclaim, as he stepped 
back to contemplate an effect, “ Sabine will be pleased.” 
For he dedicated to her this work, into which a portion 
of his soul as well as his genius had passed. He had 
counted upon the profits of this group as a little capital 
upon which to begin housekeeping. He hoped that the 
government would purchase the group. To-day it had 
brought him fame; to-morrow it would bring fortune — 
not the fortune which most men covet, as a means of in- 
dulging in dangerous pleasures or wild dissipation which 
are equally enervating to genius, but wealth which, en- 
joyed sparingly and in moderation, brings with it repose. 
What greater happiness could there be than to behold 
Sabine happy in these peaceful surroundings, and to feel 
that this happiness was not purchased by yielding to 
subversive ideas, by worshipping gold for its own sake, 
or by servile homage paid to the degraded or frivolous 
taste of the multitude ? 

There was something great in having won a place 
among real artists, without being guilty of flattery, ser- 
vility, or meanness. For who is totally exempt from 
meanness that is determined to succeed at any cost ? 
Ah! it was in that hour of compensation for his laborious 
youth, that hour when success and happiness together 
smiled upon him, that sorrow had seized him as her 
prey,tand rent his heart ! She to whom his heart had 


1/2 


IDOLS. 


SO completely gone out, who had been his sole joy, mow 
withdrew her hand cruelly from his, and declared that 
she had placed it there only in obedience to her father’s 
will. 

For three days Benedict remained shut up in his 
studio, as one suddenly stricken down. He no longer 
worked, nor even thought, for his thoughts ever strayed 
back to the young girl who had so coldly rejected him. 
Sometimes he tried to persuade himself that she had 
acted thus through a motive of self-sacrifice, and that 
she really suffered as much as he did from the separation 
which she believed was rendered inevitable by Xavier’s 
condemnation. 

He reminded himself how she had smiled upon him 
on the evening of their betrothal, and the innocent joy 
which had lit up her face. He heard again her clear, 
pure voice singing the hymn from Haydn; he found once 
more the woman whom he had once loved, cherished, 
venerated, and his heart beat high with joy. But hope 
was succeeded by profound despondency. Sulpice had 
said nothing to comfort him or give him hope. Did he, 
too, believe that his sister had never loved him ? So the 
artist denied admittance to every one, and remained 
heart and soul absorbed in his sorrow. His strength 
failed with his hope. He who but the previous day had 
been ready for the accomplishment of great and noble 
work, felt himself suddenly incapable of anything. It 
seemed to him that his ambition had died with his hap- 
piness. Glory, the eagle flight of which his eyes had 
followed, now fell earthward with broken wings, and 
Benedict asked himself if the artist could survive the 
man’s despair. 

The statues in his studio remained in their covers of 
green serge; the clay grew hard in the tubs; the stools, 
upon which stood busts or statues just commenced, were 


AN ARTIST SUPPER. 


173 


Strewn with fragments of dried earth. That room, so 
lately full of hope, life, strength, and industry, became, 
as it were, a sealed sepulchre, which Benedict did not 
care to reopen. At times he almost wished that death 
would seize him in his promising youth, and that the 
group he had sculptured might be his monument. 

About a week after his interview with Sabine a large 
document, bearing the ministerial seal, was handed to 
him. He opened it absently. But in reading the enclo- 
sure his face changed and brightened. The minister in- 
formed him that the government desired to purchase his 
group, and asked his price; adding that, to encourage 
an artist who already gave promise of so brilliant a 
future, it had resolved to confide an important work to 
him. This was to be a group representing Hylas car- 
ried off by Nymphs, and was for the decoration of a 
monumental fountain. 

“ Aye,” said Benedict, bitterly, so it is; success, wealth, 
fame, when I have no one to whom I can offer them, 
when they are worthless.” 

He threw the letter aside, and resumed his gloomy 
train of thought. Presently he heard the bell. For a 
week past Beppo, his little Italian servant, who swept the 
studio, and served as model for lazzaroni and pifferari^ 
and players on the zampogne^ had orders to admit no one, 
saying that his master was unwell and unable to receive 
them. They usually left a card, promising to come 
again. But on this occasion the visitor was obstinate ; 
he raised his voice threateningly, he even maltreated 
Beppo, who went so far as to place himself before the 
studio door in an attitude of defiance. The visitor took 
Beppo by the collar, threw him aside like a rubber ball, 
opened the door, and rushed in to Benedict. 

“You are in to me,” he cried, seizing the artist by 
both hands. 


174 


IDOLS. 


^‘Lionel!” cried Benedict. Then he added dejectedly, 
“But I am not myself.” 

“ I know all about it,” said the artist; “ blighted affec- 
tion, broken ties, illusions dispelled. You will get over 
all that. The trials of life come thick and fast upon us, 
but we must not sink under them. I expected this. 
Xavier Pomereul’s trial put an end to all your plans. Of 
course you could not marry a girl whose brother was 
condemned to the galleys.” 

“You are mistaken, Lionel,” said Benedict, “in my 
eyes Sabine was free from the slightest stain. I believe 
in Xavier’s innocence, and I wanted his sister for my 
wife.” 

“ After the trial ?” 

“ Still more after such an affliction.” 

“ That is heroic,” said Lionel, “ but foolish.” 

“Ah, but Sabine refused to marry me.” 

“ By Jupiter!” said Lionel, “ I call her a noble girl.” 

“But she broke her solemn promise.” 

“Mile. Pomereul had promised to make you happy, 
but not to ruin you.” 

“She has succeeded in that by her cruel refusal. I 
worked for Sabine; my fame, if I can call it so, is her 
doing. With her, I could do anything; without her, I 
am fit for nothing.” 

“ Oh, come, now,” said Lionel, “ you think so, but it 
is not the case.” 

“ It is as true as my sorrow.” 

“ Of course, but your sorrow will gradually grow l6ss 
and less.” 

“ I will never forget Sabine.” 

“Admitted. But neither can you ever forget art, 
which is the source of sublime pleasure. You will not 
forget sculpture, because it will be your support and 
consolation. You will find other Sabines in life, but you 


AN ARTIST SUPPER. 1 75 

can never replace the art to which you have consecrated 
yourself.” 

^As he spoke Lionel caught sight of the ministerial 
document with its red seal. 

“ That savors of the Minister of Fine Arts,” he 
said. 

“ Read it,” said Benedict, offering him the letter. 

“Well,” said the other, when he had finished reading, 
“you must ask thirty thousand francs for your group; 
it is worth more, but government invariably says it is not 
rich, and we must take its good will for the deed. The 
price being moderate, you may consider the purchase 
made. So you have thirty thousand francs in advance 
for the expenses of the fountain which is ordered.” 

“ But I will not do the fountain.” 

“ Now, there you are again with your notions. Yoa 
will refuse government work ?” 

“Government work of that sort, at all events.” 

“ Of that sort ? What do you mean ? The choice of a 
subject seems to me remarkably good for such a purpose. 
Have you a pencil here ?” 

As he spoke, he took a sheet of paper and a pencil, and 
began to sketch. 

“A mass of rock will form the base. Hylas, who 
comes to slake his thirst at the fountain, will be upon 
one of them, bending towards the crystal wave, as a poet 
would say. Below, a nymph, carelessly reclining upon 
the golden sands of the fountain, seizes Hylas by the 
hand, gently drawing him downwards. Another kneels 
eager and trembling, gazing upon their prey, whilst a 
third glides about among the leaves and sedges, regard- 
ing the scene curiously, and waiting for the fall pf Hy- 
las, who is hastening to his death.” 

Lionel held out the paper upon which he had sketched 
the scene to Benedict. 


1/6 


IDOLS. 


“It is very natural,” said Benedict, “but I am not in 
the least tempted to accept it.” 

“Why?” 

“ For a reason.” 

“An artist should never have any reason for refusing a 
government order.” 

“ You are wrong there,” said Benedict ; “ he must act 
according to his convictions.” 

“But what has ‘ Hylas and the Nymphs’ to do with 
politics ?” 

“With politics? Nothing; but with my conscience.” 

“On my word, I am in the dark,” said Lionel. 

“ Do you remember my group ?” 

‘^It made stir enough not to be easily forgotten,” said 
Lionel. “ The illustrated papers reproduced it ; C/iam 
made a caricature of it; nothing was wanting.” 

“Then you must see that I cannot be inconsistent.” 

“ But I do not understand.” 

“ I was brought up by a good man, M. Pomereul; 
taught by a saintly one, the Abbe Sulpice ; betrothed to 
the purest and most innocent girl I have ever seen and 
admired. My studies, my laborious life, the atmosphere 
which I breathed, heart and soul, was totally apart from 
the usual ideas and habits of artists. My work was in 
accordance with my life. I admire the talents of such 
men as Pradier, Carpeaux, and Carrier-Belleuse, but I 
regret that it is wasted in producing dangerous if not 
indecent figures. I have sworn to pay homage to art by 
never executing, whatever the temptation, a figure at 
which any woman might blush. My studio is a sanctu- 
ary, not a harem.” 

“ Then you are still thinking of marrying Sabine?” said 
Lionel. 

“Why, because I did not marry her, am I to change 
all my plans ?” said Benedict. 


AN ARTIST SUPPER. 


177 


“You might modify them ?” said Lionel. 

“ The beautiful must be always the beautiful,” said 
Benedict. 

“ But the beautiful, like Hindoo gods,” said Lionel, 
“ may have a multiplicity of forms. Beauty lies not only 
in drapery, but in form. I admit that the ‘ Three Graces ’ 
of Germain Pilon is admirable, but none the less that of 
Canova is exquisite.” 

“ I promised to follow that path.” 

“Whom did you promise ? Your patron? His death 
released you from it. Sabine, who has refused you ?” 

“My conscience!” said Benedict. 

“Ah, but then you must have two consciences — your 
conscience as a man, and your conscience as an artist — 
the one does not in the least interfere with the other. I 
understand and approve of your irreproachable life, but 
it has nothing to do with the marble figures which you 
represent.” 

“ Hold there,” said Benedict, “ an artist’s work is a 
reflex of himself. I could never again sculpture a group 
of Religion trampling Idols under foot, if those idols 
were my own, and if religion were not sacred in my 
I eyes.’ 

“ You could never do that, but you could do something 
else. Let me tell you your group is superb, but you will 
probably show your greatest strength in carrying out 
this government order. You will never persuade artists 
that it is as great a proof of genius to create a draped 
figure as an undraped one, or that it is not more diffi- 
cult to model an Eve than a Lucretia. Whatever may 
have been the deserved success of your last group, it can 
never reach the same height that Hylas and the Nymphs 
will.” 

“ Perhaps you are right,” said Benedict; “but I will at 
least have, the inward satisfaction of knowing that I 


i;8 


IDOLS. 


have been faithful to the course I marked out for myself, 
and that I have never made art subservient to passion.” 

“Wait forty-eight hours before you give your reply 
about the fountain,” said Lionel; “but do not lose a 
moment in fixing the price of your group. I am going 
in that direction and will deliver your letter.” 

Benedict began to write. 

“By the way,” said Lionel, “I am having a house- 
warming this evening. I came in fact to give you my 
new address. Of course I may count on you.” 

“You do not understand me, Lionel.” 

“ I understand that you are despondent, and want 
cheering up. ” 

“ I need to be alone.” 

“You need plenty of company to make you laugh.” 

“ I will never laugh much again. I feel as if my youth 
were over.” 

“ Then you should only work for funeral decora- 
tions henceforth, my good fellow. Make a statue of Art 
with his torch extinguished, his compass, his lyre, and 
his chisel broken, and then have done with it. Make 
your will, and if you are too good a Christian to use a 
brace of pistols, set off for La Trappe and take the vows. 
But do not attempt to live in the world and not be of 
the world. Fra Angelico became a monk, and Fra Bar- 
tolomeo wore the cowl. One must be consistent, so 
unless you want to put a cloister grating between your- 
self and the world, you must do as it does, and howl with 
the wolves, only showing your teeth less and making 
less noise than the rest. What does this supper amount 
to after all ? Sitting down to table with some friends 
who appreciate you.” 

And who have not a single idea in common with 
me.” 

Upon art perhaps not, but upon patS aux truffeSy 


AN ARTIST SUPPER. 


179 


my dear boy, it is another story. You need not drink if 
wine does not agree with you; you need not sing if you 
do not feel inclined. You can sufc in a corner if you 
please ; you can rail at our gayety from the heights of 
reason. You can represent, if you wish, the philosophers 
at Couture’s Fete Romainer There are concessions 
enough for you, I hope.” 

“ Thank you, Lionel, but I cannot — ” 

“ Refuse, you were going to say,” said Lionel; “ I be- 
lieve you.” 

“ No, accept,” said Benedict; “ my wound is too deep.’* 

“ The more reason for healing it.” 

“ It will reopen.” 

“ When the weather changes, perhaps. But try to keep 
the barometer at fair weather.” 

“ No, Lionel, once more no.” 

“You are wrong, Benedict, and I am sorry to see it. 
If you nourish your grief in gloomy silence, it will be- 
come a disease. It will paralyze your brain and your 
hand. It will render you incapable of everything. You 
will be among those to whom the world says with an 
evil joy, Vcevictis! You must not let yourself be con- 
quered in this struggle. Rise the greater for misfor- 
tune. Forget Sabine, give the Muse the place once held 
in your life by that young girl, and, arrested in your 
course for an instant by an unforeseen obstacle, cross 
with one bound the barrier at the foot of which you had 
lain down to die.” 

“I have not strength for all this.” 

“ Not of yourself alone, 'perhaps, but sustained by your 
friends, and I am a friend, Benedict.” 

“Then leave me to grieve.” 

“To grieve with me, yes. You shall tell me of your 
dreams of Sabine, of your perished happiness; and I 
shall speak in glowing terms of the Muse who presides 


i8o 


IDOLS. 


over sculpture. I will paint for you the glory which you 
now disdain, and in a few months you will not only be 
contented, but happy.” 

“If I could believe this.” 

“ You may believe me, Benedict, for what you are suf- 
fering I have suffered.” 

“ But was the one you loved like Sabine ?” 

“ Yes, but I found that art was better and higher still.” 

“ I do not know whether you are my deliverer, or 
merely a tempting spirit,” said Benedict; “ but your visit 
has done me good.” 

“ And an evening spent with us will completely restore 
you. Will you come?” 

“ I would be a melancholy guest,” said Benedict. 

“The philosopher of the Fete Romaine^ it is agreed. 
We will expect you.” 

“At what hour is supper?” 

“ Nine o’clock.” 

“You can set a place for me, Lionel.” 

“And I will take your letter to the minister. Au 
revoir'* 

They shook hands and Lionel went out. 

“Ah, signor mio^ I shall be scolded,” said Beppo to him. 

“Get your master’s clothes ready, you young vaga- 
bond,” said Lionel, “ and spend these five francs to my 
health.” 

Beppo showed every tooth in a broad grin. Benedict 
called him in a moment to take his orders. 

“Lionel is about right,” thought Benedict; “if sorrow 
is not strong enough to kill us at once, why should we 
let it do so by degrees ? I will not enter into gayety or 
folly to-night. But contact with others may cheer me 
up.” 

Benedict made an unusually careful toilet, and at the 
appointed hoar arrived at his friend’s studio.. 


AN ARTIST SUPPER. 


i8i 


It was a large room with a very high ceiling on which 
draperies forming a sort of tent concealed all defects in 
the plastering. Brilliant pictures in large gilt frames 
claimed immediate attention. Lionel had truly an 
artist’s temperament, and everything from his hand 
showed power and originality. Rare pieces of faience^ 
curious coats-of-arms mounted in panoplies, statuary or 
terra-cotta figures, various knick-knacks, canvases by 
Beauvais with female figures, bunches of flowers or 
wings of birds peeping out from dark draperies, con- 
tributed to the charming effect of the whole. All the 
artist’s apparatus had been pushed into corners, and the 
supper table was served in the centre of the room. It 
was in excellent taste, but in such sumptuous style as to 
remind one of the gorgeous feasts which Veronese loved 
to represent. Venetian crystals filled with flowers, silver 
and gold ornaments of German workmanship, goblets 
for champagne, pitchers of foaming ale, flasks of Italian 
wine, thickset decanters, bottles covered with straw, and 
long-necked ones of Rhine wine from the royal vineyards 
of Johannisberg, sparkling Moselle, Chiraz, with tops of 
rose-colored silk and seals of fragrant wax, made up an 
inviting whole. 

Vases of flowers, pyramids of fruit, chandeliers of 
waxen tapers alternated with substantial dishes. Under 
the tablecloth was a rug of the thickness of two carpets, 
and the cloth itself was of the finest linen ornamented 
with lace and with a rich border. In the corners of the 
studio statues of Venetian negroes holding candelabra 
completed the ornamentation. 

When Benedict entered, nearly all the guests were 
assembled. They were deep in conversation and his 
entrance was scarcely noticed. The late ones having 
arrived, the curtains were drawn and supper began. 
Benedict did not regret having come. He sat beside an 


i 82 


IDOLS. 


old brother artist, who indulged in many pleasant rem- 
iniscences, and the gayety was for some time within per- 
fectly reasonable limits. 

Some literary men, principally art critics, enlivened 
the occasion by excellent stories. The mirth was real 
and hearty. The drinking was done slowly. The night 
was long, and the windows, carefully curtained, did not 
permit day to penetrate too quickly into the studio. At 
length the company began to grow heated. Congratu- 
lations were exchanged on mutual success. Benedict 
received a great many compliments, and, as he omitted 
to mention the purchase of his group by the Minister of 
Arts, Lionel took care to announce it. Every hand was 
immediately stretched out to him, and this spontaneous 
sympathy did him good. He realized how hard it was 
to live in solitude, and depend on one’s self, and he re- 
solved to follow his friend’s advice and dispel grief by 
the pursuit of pleasure. He slowly emptied his glass, 
touching it to that of an art critic, and his face began to 
light up; but it was not with the inspired light of old; 
it was rather with the flush of wine which quickly re- 
moved all traces of tears. Conversation became more 
animated; words flew about tike arrows. Foolish sto- 
ries were told; each one spoke of projected statues or 
paintings. In turn Benedict was questioned as to his. 

“Ah !” said Lionel, “he has no choice — the subject is 
given him.’’ 

“ By whom — a banker ?” asked one. 

“ Better than that.’’ 

“ A prince ?’’ 

“No; a king called Government.” 

“What is it?” asked a dozen voices. 

“ Hylas and the Nymphs.” 

“ He is in luck !” cried they. 

“ You do not know him; he refuses.” 


AN ARTIST SUPPER. 


183 


‘‘ Bah !” 

“ He has sworn to make Madonnas in perpetuity.” 

“ Take care, my good fellow,” said one; “ that is dan- 
gerous.” 

“ In what way ?” asked Benedict. 

“ To be too fond of draperies. It seems as if you 
find it easier to dress a lay figure than to reproduce 
nature.” 

“ No,” said Benedict, feeling bound to defend his con- 
victions; “it is because I have too much respect for art 
to turn it to base uses.” 

“ Bah ! then you would suppress the best creations of 
Michael Angelo, and burn Raphael’s “ Triumph of Gala- 
tea.” Art for art’s sake, my boy. A fig for those who 
shield themselves under a pretence of morality. I could 
understand your scruples if you were about to marry; 
but as I hear that is all over, there will be no one to criti- 
cise your work, and you need not fear to offend the 
squeamish conscience of a pretty young girl. To refuse 
I a government order ! It is an unheard-of thing.” 

“Perhaps, sir,” said a critic, “you have some idea of 
I reforming society, and remodelling it according to your 
notion. You will never succeed. To kfeep the favor of 
' the multitude, go with it. What harm would there be 
in modelling the Nymphs and the youth Hylas, as de- 
picted in the fable ? You have proved that religion has 
power to inspire you. Show us now what poetry, the 
theogony of Greece, can gain from your chisel.” 

“To the fountain of the Nymphs,” said Lionel, raising 
his glass. 

Benedict was silent. His neighbor filled his glass for 
I him. 

1 “Empty it in any case,” said he. “You are free to 
i do as you wish. They will call you a devotee.” 

I Benedict touched glasses with his neighbor. 


IDOLS. 


184 

“To art!” cried he, “ under whatsoever form it Le 
To art, whose love never deceives us, and who makes ot 
us what we are, and will make us immortal !” 

Gildas now raised his glass, and sang some verses in a 
ringing voice. 

“ Bravo, bravo !” cried the young men. 

Lionel filled the poet’s glass. 

“ The second verse,” said he, and the poet improvised 
a second. 

“ That is too melancholy,” said a voice. And the poet 
began a third and last stanza, treating of the sublimity 
of art, and the immortality which it purchases. 

This was followed by an outburst of enthusiasm. The 
poet’s hand was warmly shaken, and he was congratu- 
lated on his efforts. 

Conversation then began to change its tone. Bottles 
and decanters were emptied with astonishing rapidity; 
the guests raised their voices, and some became very 
much affected. The journalists registered in their note- 
books the name of Preault, the ideal sculptor. The 
mirth became boisterous ; they all talked together in 
different keys and on different subjects. An amateur, 
seating himself at the piano, played the.“ Marche aux 
Flambeaux,” whilst the artists, half tipsy, took a dish, 
a chandelier, or a lamp, and walked in procession 
round the room. Others threw themselves down on 
sofas to smoke, and the poet began a discourse on the 
“Visions of Opium.” 

Heads grew muddled, words inaudible, and soon half 
the company was asleep. Before they left the studio a 
servant opened the shutters. It was broad daylight. 
Each one rose, stretched himself, passed his hands 
through his dishevelled hair, glanced at his disordered 
clothing, at the remnants of the feast, and, lighting fresh 
cigars, went away, thanking Lionel for his royal banquet. 


AN ARTIST SUPPER. 


185 


‘‘ Stay,” said Lionel to Benedict. 

The young sculptor paused. 

“Are you tired ?’’ said the painter. 

“ No,” said the other. 

“ Do you feel better ?” 

“ I have less contempt for others and less esteem for 
myself,” said Benedict. 

“ That is not bad. Do you feel like working ?” 

“ I ? I have not an idea in my mind.” 

“ So much the better. We will rest together. I will 
dispose of this evening.” 

“ Where will you take me ?” 

“To the theatre.” 

“To hear some fashionable craze ?” 

“ Exactly.” 

“ So you want to kill my soul ?” 

“To kill the worm which is gnawing at it.” 

“ Can you be certain, Lionel, that the soul will sur- 
vive ?” 

“ Its only use just now is to make you suffer.” 

“Just now — yes; but once it was all my joy and 
strength.” 

“ Once is far off, Benedict.” ^ 

“ Yes; and Sabine will never be my wife. As you will. 
I will stay. Take me where you please.” 

For a week Lionel continued what he called his sav- 
ing of Benedict. He hurried him from pleasure to 
pleasure, varying them and inventing new ones with a 
sort of genius. At first Benedict was wearied and dis- 
gusted; then he began to find the pleasures less repul- 
sive, and, as they gave him forgetfulness, he ended by 
craving them. 

One morning, however, he said to Lionel, whose apart- 
ments he now shared, 

“ Have you any modelling wax here ?” 


IDOLS. 


1 86 

I think ^so. Isidor began his group of Centaurs — a 
piece of idiocy. Use the Centaurs for whatever you 
want." 

Benedict sat down at the table and began to model. 
Meanwhile Lionel painted on his Dejanire. Both were 
silent, each absorbed in his work. At length the wan- 
ing day, with its darkness, warned them that their task 
had been already too far prolonged. Lionel threw aside 
his brush, and stepped back to judge of the effect of his 
work. He fixed a mirror in the proper position to show 
the canvas. Satisfied with his work, he said, rubbing 
his hands, 

“ The Dejanire is the excuse for the Centaur. That 
will come. And you ?" turning to Benedict. 

Benedict did not hear, but continued to model. Lionel 
leaned over the sculptor’s shoulder and watched him. 
Benedict was just finishing the rough cast of the Foun- 
tain of Hylas and the Nymphs. 

“ Bravo !" said Lionel, with sincere admiration. ‘‘ It 
is a great work, and will be the beginning of your real 
fame." 

“ Perhaps," said the sculptor; adding in a low voice, 
“ something has died within me." 

“ What is that ?" 

“ My conscience," answered Sabine’s lover. 


THE GOLDEN CALF. 


187 


CHAPTER XIII. 

The Golden Calf. 

The fourth floor of the Pomereul mansion was occu- 
pied, as we have said, by the servants and by the Abbe 
Sulpice. His apartments were so arranged that the first 
served as antechamber to the second. The antecham- 
ber was furnished in straw, the walls covered with dark 
paper, and in the centre of the room stood a table of 
black wood loaded with papers. The second was like 
a monk’s cell. A low bed formed the background; a 
p7'ie-dieu was placed under a handsome crucifix, which 
occupied one of the panels; the third was completely 
taken up by book-shelves, giving evidence of the abbe’s 
taste for study. A desk full of deeds and manuscripts, 
a lamp, a sofa for visitors, and a straw chair for the abb6 
himself, completed the furniture. 

The young priest rose at five o’clock, celebrated his 
morning mass at the Church de la Trinite, returned at 
half-past seven, took a frugal meal, and received visitors 
till ten o’clock. He then went down to his sister’s 
I apartments, and joined to some extent in the family life 
: till it was time to set out for Charenton, where he su- 
perintended the education of the children, visited the 
sick, and consoled the suffering. 

When he returned home, he devoted two hours to his 
correspondence, reading and answering letters. Then 
he again received those who wished to see him; after- 
wards made his calls, or went whither his ministry was 
I required, returned, took a very simple meal in his own 
i roorfi, spent a little while with Sabiile, and retired to take 
[ his much-needed rest. 


i88 


IDOLS. 


There was no need of being announced at the abbe’s 
door. It usually stood open, and every one who had a 
favor to ask, whether he were rich or poor, passed in by 
turns. The lady of rank stood side by side with the 
poor workwoman; the mechanic found himself in com- 
pany with some influential functionary; and, if the Abbe 
Sulpice showed partiality to any one in the matter of 
admittance, it was to the most miserable, whose time 
was naturally most precious. People came from all 
parts of Paris to see him. Many of the highest rank 
were often to be met in the antechamber of the Abbe 
Sulpice, and dignitaries of the Church came to seek 
counsel of the young priest, whose saintly life placed 
him so high in public esteem. 

Sulpice never felt vain of this influence which he 
exercised over so many souls. To the poor he simply 
said, “Suffer patiently.” To the rich, “ Give of your 
abundance, and, if you have the courage, even make 
sacrifices in order to give.” 

One morning the banker, Andre Nicois, presented i 
himself in the anteroom. Whilst the Abbe Sulpice was i 
busy within, consoling, fortifying, advising, the banker ' 
passed in review the hapless ones who had come to seek 
aid of the priest; for all were in some way poor or suf- ; 
fering. Some sought material bread, others food for ,ii 
the soul. Some asked for courage to bear some affiic- | 
tion. Mothers, holding pale and worn children to their 
famished breasts, asked for alms to keep them from 
starvation. Young men came for strength and guidance | 
to resist the temptations of life. i 

The banker having come last was the last to enter the ' 
abbe’s private room. When the young priest recognized I 
him he held out both his hands with the greatest warmth. ' 

“You come,” he said, “as a living reminder of my 
dead father who loved you so much.” 


THE GOLDEN CALF. 


189 


“Love fully returned by me,” said Nicois; “and God 
is witness that you, your sister, and your unfortunate, 
brother, are equally dear to me.” 

“ What can I do for you ?” asked the abbe. 

“ I come, in the first place, to make restitution. 
Thanks to your timely assistance, I passed through a 
financial crisis. I have come to return you the hundred 
thousand francs which you placed at my disposal.” 

“I have no right to refuse it,” said the abbe, “as 
there are other heirs to my father’s fortune; but I want 
you to promise that, if ever you are in any difficulty, you 
will apply to us.” 

“ I readily promise,” said the banker. 

“ So your affairs have really taken a favorable turn 
said the abbe. 

“ Yes,” replied the banker; “ and the present political 
movement is greatly to my advantage. The war, which 
has ruined a great many speculators, has thrown an 
operation in my way by means of which I realized three 
millions at one stroke.” 

“ Three millions !” cried the abbe. 

“Yes, three millions,” said the banker. 

“ May I ask you a question .?” said the abbe. 

“ Certainly.” 

“You are fond of money ?” 

“Very fond.” 

“ But you are not avaricious ?” 

“ No; for the avaricious love to hoard money. I love 
to spend it.” 

“Then you desire to amass a princely fortune by 
which you can outrival the most luxurious in luxury ?” 

“ I love money,” answered Nicois, “ because it is the 
great power of our century; it founds newspapers, buys 
up the consciences of men, and governs everything.” 

“Except those who despise it,” said the abbe. 


IDOLS. 


/ 

190 

“ But they are rare,” said the banker. 

“ It is strange,” said the Abbe Sulpice, but I seek in 
vain on your face for any traces of this idolatry of the 
golden calf. I can find none. I do not believe, if you 
will allow me to say so, that this thirst after riches is 
natural to you; it is an excrescence upon your character. 
The longer I look at you the more am I convinced that 
your disposition is generous.” 

“You may be right,” said Nicois; “ but, as you know, 
habit becomes a second nature. My father, who was 
born rich, was ruined by the failure of a correspondent. 
I was then seventeen — ^just at the age when the goods of 
fortune seem most enviable — and I felt the loss of my 
father’s money bitterly. He did not long survive his 
misfortunes, and his last advice to me, with his dying 
breath, was to give up all the pleasures of youth, and 
that enjoyment I so much craved, in order that I might 
make a second fortune. ‘ Listen,’ said he; ‘the Dufer- 
nois have a daughter, whose dowry will be a million. 
She is ten years old; you are seventeen. Our late re- 
verses will not prevent Dufernois from giving you his 
daughter. I have arranged everything for your happi- 
ness. Therefore let all your dreams, hopes, and aspira- 
tions tend towards that one goal of wealth. The first 
million, I grant you, is always hard to make. When you 
get one from Dufernois the rest will come of itself. 
Repair what was not my fault but my misfortune. Take 
upon the Bourse the place which I once occupied. Sov- 
ereigns succeed each other upon the throne of France; 
the kings of finance alone retain their power.’ I an- 
swered in a way which satisfied him, but when he in- 
sisted upon my marriage with Mile. Dufernois I hesitated. 
He saw it, and fixed a piercing glance on me. I hung 
my head. 

“ ‘ I am dying,’ said he, ‘ and I want your promise.’ 


THE GOLDEN CALF. 


I9I 

“ I gave it. He died, feeling that my own and my 
mother’s future was secured. I kept my word. Thence- 
forth I worked with redoubled ardor, not so much for 
love of money at first, but in obedience to my father’s 
command. Yet at times I reproached myself, reproached 
myself bitterly.” 

Nicois paused, and seemed to hesitate. 

The abbe took his hand. 

“Speak,” said he; “it will do you good to tell me the 
story of your life. I am a friend.” 

“ But a friend who is rather too austere.” 

The abbe pointed to the crucifix. 

“ A confessor, if you will,” said he. 

“ Not yet. But in whatever way you put it, I know I 
can depend on your discretion.” 

A slight pressure of the hand he held was the abbe’s 
sole reply. 

“ I was young,” said the banker, “full of youthful ardor 
and impetuosity. My mother was a good woman in every 
sense of the word, but indifferent about religion. She 
bore my father’s name with honor, but she did not teach 
me what she had never known herself^ the inviolable 
principles of duty which depend upon the keeping of 
God’s commandments. Her advice was good, but never 
rose above social propriety or personal advantage. She 
wished me to be happy, but she thought I could be so 
without that faith which had been disregarded in her own 
education. I was young, ardent, fiery, impulsive, impa- 
tient of all restraint, and more ambitious of pleasure 
than of fortune. The entire liberty I enjoyed, the want 
of all religious belief, at my twenty years of age, neces- 
sarily led me into a dangerous path, and I followed it. 
Without consulting my mother, forgetful of the promise 
to my dying father, I became engaged to a beautiful 
young girl, but who, alas I was poor.- She believed in me 


192 


IDOLS. 


entil'd} ; when it was time for me to settle in life, when I 
was twenty-five and Mile, Dufernois eighteen, my mother 
reminded me of my father’s wish. I asked for time. I 
had not courage to tell the confiding creature whom I 
loved that I had lied to her, and read her contempt for 
me in her honest eyes.” 

Nicois shuddered. 

‘dt was hard, indeed,” said the abbe, ‘^but why did 
you not state the case to your mother?” 

“ She would have laugh'ed at my scruples. Not judg- 
ing my conduct from a religious standpoint, she would 
have thought my fault a very trifling one, and have had 
no hesitation in bidding me break the heart of the poor 
child whom I had asked to be my wife. On the other 
hand, the Dufernois family treated me already as a son- 
in-law. Mile. Coralie had long regarded me as her be- 
trothed. I found myself helpless between the obligations 
contracted for me by my father, my attitude in the house, 
and the intimacy between my mother and these friends. 
Doubtless, had I confessed the truth to Mile. Coralie, she 
would through pride have advised me to marry the poor 
girl to whom I had solemnly pledged my faith. But I 
will tell the whole truth without reserve, and in spite of 
my shame disclose the entire workings of my miserable 
heart. I knew that Mile. Dufernois, who had been brought 
up to consider herself as my future wife, bore me a ten- 
der affection, somewhat timid, it is true, but infinitely 
charming, graceful and attractive. She had never dreamt 
that any other man could be connected with her life. 
Her innocent soul rejoiced that she could so easily obey 
her family in the matter of choosing her husband. She 
treated me with touching deference, and did nothing 
without my advice; as the time for our marriage ap- 
proached she became more affectionate, but still remained 
calm, smiling and dignified. Her beauty and the ele- 


THE GOLDEN CALF. 


193 


gance of her manner captivated me. I compared her, 
in her wealth and beauty, with the poor girl, to whom I 
had dreamed of uniting my fate. Yet, if I had been free, 
I should never have hesitated. My heart imperiously in- 
clined to my first love; but reason, society — all my sur- 
roundings urged me towards Mile. Dufernois. I was 
forced to settle matters and to fix a date. I agreed to 
everything; in the first place for want of any sufficient 
reason to oppose to whatever was expected of me; when 
I found myself bound so that retreat was impossible, I 
asked myself what was to be done with the other one.” 

Again the banker stopped, overcome by these recollec- 
tions. His eyes were fixed on vacancy, as though his 
words had evoked some phantom upon which he gazed. 

“ How far off it is, how far off,” he repeated, “and yet, 
when I recall those days it seems but yesterday. When 
the time of my marriage was settled I made pretext of a 
journey to explain my absence, and told the poor for- 
saken one that I would be away a month from Paris. 
One week afterwards I married Mile. Dufernois. She 
had every quality which could attract; from the day of 
our union I felt in anew world; I even persuaded myself 
it was my duty to act as I had done. I banished re- 
morse by asking myself if some ambitious motive had 
not influenced the poor girl whom I no longer loved. 
Having betrayed her I calumniated her to nlyself, though 
she conquered me there. When she learned my marriage 
with Mile. Dufernois, she wrote me a letter full of pity 
and forgiveness. She prayed that Heaven might pardon 
me, and concluded by saying: ‘ I am heart-stricken and 
I know that I shall not live long. A just God who pun- 
ishes all our faults will demand expiation for the wrong 
you have done me. Alas ! my greatest pain now is that 
all my love for you cannot avert this chastisement,* 

“Very soon after I heard of her death.” 


194 


IDOLS. 


^‘Poor child,” murmured the Abbe Sulpice. 

*‘Alas? even her death affected me little. I forgot my 
victim in the happiness of seeing a child at my fireside. 
This child became my joy, my hope, and my ambition. 
T consecrated my talents and my whole future — my very 
life to it. I felt myself a better man beside its cradle. 
The child was lovely, as fair as a lily, with sweet, pure, 
blue eyes. Its hair was of a peculiar tawny color, in- 
creasing the beauty of the spirituelle face. The mother 
was enraptured. Till then my desire for wealth had 
been moderate. My wife’s dowry seemed sufficient, and 
I abandoned myself to the mere pleasure of living, prom- 
ising later to launch out into speculations. Everything 
combined to make me perfectly happy. The recollec- 
tion of the poor dead girl scarcely ever occurred to me, 
and when it did, made little impression upon me. Hap- 
piness inspires a singular confidence. But the predic- 
tion of punishment was verified, though delayed for four 
years.” 

The banker wiped the cold perspiration from his brow. 

“Courage, courage,” said the Abbe Sulpice. 

“About that time,” he resumed, “ I was obliged to go 
to Austria; I expected to be away only three weeks, and 
did not think of taking my wife and son. While I was 
in Vienna I received a letter written in despair by my 
wife. It contained but these words, 

“ ‘ Our child has been stolen.’ 

“ If a thunderbolt had fallen upon my head I could not 
have felt more utterly crushed. Our child stolen ! By 
whom, and why ? I hastened to Paris. I questioned my 
wife; she had no clue. During my absence a strange 
servant was engaged; four days after the child went for 
a walk with her and disappeared. The servant, fearing 
the mother’s anger, did not return. A complaint lodged 
against her at the police office caused her to be found. 


THE GOLDEN CALF. 


195 


She fell upon her knees weeping and sobbing. She was 
honest. It had happened in this way: Having taken the 
child to the Tuileries, at its request the nurse went into 
the Champs Elysees, where some puppets were being ex- 
hibited to a number of children. There was a great 
crowd around the stand; the child, enjoying the perform- 
ance, raised the cloth, trying to discover the secrets of 
the wooden actors, and his nurse laughed with him in 
his glee. When the performance was over there was a 
sudden panic in the crowd; children cried, mothers be- 
came alarmed. The greatest confusion prevailed, and 
when the servant sought the child, it had disappeared. 
She ran to and fro questioning everyone. No one could 
give her any information. Meantime the performers had 
taken up their stand, packed thedr puppets and departed, 
so that the girl did not even know the spot where my 
poor little Marc had disappeared. I advertised in every 
paper and offered immense rewards; I had placards 
posted everywhere, describing the child and his dress, 
but all in vain, he was never found. My wife, in her 
despair cried out, 

“ O my God, my God ! why are we so afflicted ! we 
have never injured any one.” 

‘‘ Then I remembered. 

“ The loss of my child was God’s punishment on me.” 

Did not this thought lead you to repentance ?” asked 
.the Abbe Sulpice. 

“No,” said Nicois; “my grief was fierce, wild, selfish. 
It hardened me instead of making me better.” 

“Alas!” murmured the priest. 

“ I blasphemed God, whom I said had punished an 
innocent woman and child for my crime. I would not 
even admit that I deserved punishment. I made use of 
all the sophistry by which young men excuse the criminal 
levity of their conduct. I compared my blighted life 


196 


IDOLS. 


with the easy life of others, and I cried out that God 
was unjust. No other child came to supply the loss of 
our poor Marc. We remained alone with the bitter 
recollection of the lost child. Often did I follow a crowd 
of little beggar children, seeing a resemblance to my son 
in some of them, and drew the little .vagrants into con- 
versation, and whenever I saw jugglers dragging miser- 
able children after them, I stopped and questioned them 
hoping for tidings of my child. I had moments of de- 
spair when I beat my breast and sobbed like a woman. 
More than once in my outbr’rsts of grief I revealed at 
least a portion of the truth to my wife. She guessed the 
rest. Slowly and gradually she shrank away from me. 

I felt her growing estranged and detached from my life, 
as a flower from its sustaining stem. She seemed almost 
to hate me. In the depths of her soul I knew that she 
accused me of being the cause of her misfortune. Her 
love for our stolen child became stronger than her love 
for me. She began to remember my strange moods at 
the time of our marriage, the anxiety concerning which . 
she had so often questioned me, and which she now 
understood, in spite of all attempt at dissimulation. 
Henceforth, I had neither companion nor friend in her. 
Madame Nicois, indeed, remained a model wife, whose 
conduct was beyond reproach, but, as far as I was con- 
cerned, merely a silent shadow, bound to my life indeed, 
but no longer sharing it. I made some efforts to win 
her back, but I failed. Pride forbade any farther at- 
tempts, and I was left alone, all alone.” 

“ And did you not even then think of God ?” asked the 
priest. 

‘‘From that time,” replied the banker, “dates my 
craving after wealth. Happiness being denied me, I 
remembered the advice of my father, forgotten during 
those happy years; I bitterly felt that all was false in. 


THE GOLDEN CALF. ^ 


197 


this world, woman’s love, the promise of childhood; that 
the love of gold alone fulfilled its promise. Gold brought 
influence, purchased honors which no man could win for 
himself, opened every door, surmounted all difficulties, 
subdued everything by its power; gold was itself fame, 
for in Paris luxury is celebrity. A banker who obtains 
a loan for the government is ennobled at his pleasure, 
and becomes allied to princely families. A man rich 
enough to own a newspaper is a power; the ministers 
flatter him, the court makes advances to him; authors 
compare him to Maecenas, when they are about to pub- 
lish their last novel. All the beautiful things which art 
creates, or the wildest fancy invents, are his, if he so de^ 
sires. He builds mansions of marble in the heart of 
Paris, and finds flowers of every land and clime in his 
conservatory. To be rich in Paris is to hold the greatest 
of all power. Once understanding this, I said to my- 
self, I will be rich. If I were rash in my enterprises, they 
were nevertheless crowned with success. If any transient 
difficulties embarrassed me, the ultimate result far sur- 
passed my hopes. I fought innumerable battles, and 
never found my financial Waterloo. My name is side by 
side with the most distinguished financiers, and that 
gold which I so eagerly craved, I now possess in such 
profusion that I know not how to spend it.” 

“Do you find the expected happiness in its posses- 
sion ?” asked the abbe. 

“ I am weary of the mere gratification of being rich,” 
said Nicois; “but not of the proud comparison which I 
can draw between myself and those who have nothing.” 

“Then you admit,” said the priest, “that the love of 
gold has been baneful in its effects? Far better for you 
to have less wealth in your coffers and more pity in your 
heart for others.” 

“ Pity for others ?” repeated the banker., 


198 


IDOLS. 


“ And why not, my friend ?” said the priest. 

“ Because no one suffers what I have suffered.” 

“ Have you forgotten,” asked the priest, rising as he 
spoke, the last bitter trial which has brought Sabine 
and me to the foot of the crucifix ?” 

“No,” said Nicois; “certainly not, but think of my 
child, my child! you have only lost a brother.” 

“ And with that brother, the victim of a deplorable act 
of folly, we have lost the honor of the family, which God 
knows we highly prized. Sabine has, moreover, given 
up the intended marriage which my father so lately blest, 
and I can only weep with her.” 

“What? Mile. Sabine will not marry M. Fougerais?” 

“ She cannot,” said the priest, “ and I approve of what 
she has done. For it would be wrong to bring the dowry 
of unmerited disgrace to a worthy man so full of heart 
and of talent. I deplore it though, for I doubt if Bene- 
dict is strong enough to stand such a test. What must 
be our regret, if that noble intellect of his should lose 
the sentiment of the good, the beautiful, the true, now 
so strong? If Benedict once ceased to be the Christian 
artist whom we loved, he falls into an abyss, whence 
there is little hope of rescuing him.” 

“This is terrible,” said Nicois; “and do you not curse 
the hand which has stricken you ?” 

“We adore it, even in its severity,” said the priest. 

“ Have you any hope ?” said Nicois. 

“Yes; that light may be thrown upon it all,” said the 
abbe. 

“ But if such should not be the case, if like Lesurques, 
your brother should die before his innocence is made 
manifest ?” 

“ I shall look for justice there,” said the priest, point- 
ing upwards. 

“There above us,” said the banker, “is the air, the 


THE GOLDEN CALF. 


199 

ether peopled with countless stars, but that is all. I do 
not believe in another life,” 

“ That is the very reason w^hy you are inconsolable,” 
said the priest; “ believe me, there is no sorrow so great 
that faith cannot soften its bitterness. To the Christian 
a grave is a cradle. When we kneel beside a funeral 
pile, we venerate the remains of a being made to the 
image of God. Whilst our eyes follow it into the eternal 
world where all is pure and incorruptible, the certainty 
of its joy is the best solace for our grief. Ah' if, recog- 
nizing the hand which had stricken you, you had bowed 
down humble and contrite before the justice of Heaven, 
deploring your fault instead of blaspheming God, you 
would have suffered less I assure you. If, in the name 
of your lost child, you had relieved misery, assisted poor 
mothers, provided asylums for orphans, you might have 
appeased the anger of God, and obtained the recovery 
of your child. You believe your wretchedness is com- 
plete, but are you certain that Heaven has punished you 
sufficiently ?” 

“Spare me!” cried Nicois; “do not add to my 
misery.” 

“I would rather,” said Sulpice, “apply thereto the 
sovereign remedy of resignation.” 

“ Ah! if you could promise me that at any cost I should 
find my child.” 

“I do not work miracles,” said Sulpice; “nor do I 
tempt the Lord, my God. I simply tell you of His law, 
and transmit to you His precepts. You have suffered a 
great deal, and hitherto found no alleviation for your 
grief. It is because He alone who inflicted the wound 
can heal it. All your wealth could not console you as 
much as one tear shed at the feet of God.” 

The banker shook his head. 

“ I have given up hopes of finding my son,” said he. 


200 


IDOLS. 


“ and I cannot suffer more than I have done. Thank 
you for hearing me with such patience. My heart still 
remains closed against that God whom you would fain 
make me to love. To find happiness in abnegation and 
self-sacrifice one must have known and loved that God 
from childhood.” 

“ Then,” said the priest, “ there is nothing I can do 
for you ?” 

“ Do not say so,” said the banker. I regard you as 
among myfwarmest friends, and friends are scarce. If I 
should ever have new cause of suffering I will confide it 
to you alone.” 

The banker shook hands warmly with the young priest 
and went away. 

“ My God !” cried the priest, when he was thus left 
alone, “ wilt Thou permit that heart to suffer so, instead 
of drawing it to Thee ?” 

He remained some time prostrate in prayer for the 
man whom so many envied, and who was, nevertheless, 
so wretched. Then going down stairs, he found Sabine, 
who had just come in. 

“You have been there ?” he asked. 

She answered by an affirmative nod. 

“Tell me of him,” said the priest. 

“ I found him more prostrated than ever by his mis- 
fortune. There is reason to fear for his health, which 
has been terribly shaken by all these shocks. He is in a 
high fever. He asks justice of men and forgets to ask 
pardon of God. If I did not hope that he would yet 
be acquitted, and that the real culprit would be found, I 
should ask God to take Xavier to Himself.” 

“ There is every reason to hope, Sabine, even against 
hope. If, the unhappy boy perseveres in these rebellious 
dispositions we can only pray and suffer for him and 
with him, that he may at length be brought to resigna- 


THE GOLDEN CALF. 


201 


tion. An occasion for further self-sacrifice may soon be 
offered us; even women may be called upon to fulfil a 
sublime mission, and in that case we will hope that our 
misfortunes have kindled in us a sacred and purifying 
flame.” 

“ Ah !” said Sabine, “ I understand. But for my utter 
loneliness and desolation you would have gone with the 
army. A soldier of the Cross, you would have faced 
death beside the soldiers of glory. When I see so many 
young and noble priests hastening to the scene of war, 
I have often thought that your place is with them; but 
my courage failed me when I would have advised you 
to follow them. I asked myself what would become of 
me, between the thought of my poor despairing brother 
and the memory of one whom I shall never see again.” 

“ Then you still regret him?” said the priest. “You 
are grieving for him. Why not call him back ?” 

“ Duty forbids it. Sorrow has its dignity, and I would 
rather he should think me cold and insensible than self- 
ish and cowardly. If I cannot at once subdue an affec- 
tion encouraged by my father and blessed by you, I can 
at least prove myself worthy a good man’s love by wear- 
ing mourning like a widow.” 

Baptiste came in just then with the papers. The 
abbe tore them open with a hasty gesture, and glanced 
down the columns anxiously. Broken exclamations es- 
caped him; his eyes grew dim; h-is heart beat high. 

“Defeated!” cried he; “not in an equal combat, but 
overpowered by force of numbers. Reverses on all 
sides! And, though obscure soldiers are covering them- 
selves with glory, and performing prodigies of valor, 
they cannot save the army, nor preserve France. Ah ! 
will Heaven abandon the country of Charlemagne, of 
St. Louis, and of Joan d’Arc ? Will this invasion, swell- 
ing like a threatening sea, at last engulf Paris ? Alas ! 


202 


IDOLS. 


there is no Genevieve’s crook to oppose to Attila’s bat- 
tle-axe. It is heart-breaking to read of it. France be- 
trayed, sold, delivered to its enemies by some new Judas. 
Such will be the verdict of posterity. Never again shall 
that sublime feeling of love of country fill all hearts. 
Never again shall France rise as a nation, indignant, 
wronged, but yet invincible. No nation could ever con- 
quer her till she has once felt the shame of defeat. 
They spend the time for action in words. Plans are 
being made when the moment has come to take up arms, 
and meanwhile the Prussian army is encircling us in its 
folds, and will finally crush us.” 

“What !” cried Sabine. “Do you fear that France — ” 

“ Will be conquered? Such is ever the fate of nations 
when, enervated by luxury, permeated to their very core 
by vice, they deserve a terrible awakening. How terri- 
ble it seems to me, as a priest, no less than as a French- 
man, that a Protestant soldiery should set foot upon 
Catholic France ! And yet — ” 

“ They dare not attack Paris !” cried Sabine. 

“ They will dare. It is their turn now.” 

“ What will you do ?” asked Sabine. “ When I thought 
of your going away with the army to some distant 
place, and leaving me alone and desolate, my courage 
failed me. But if I can, as it were, fight by your side — 
take my share of the common burden, staunch wounds, 
console, and comfort — in a word, play my woman’s part, 
count on me, Sulpice. The sister will be worthy of the 
brother. My weakness and hesitation shall be lost sight 
of in face of danger; and, rising above my own sorrows, 
I will do all for love of Him who has afflicted us.” 

Baptiste threw open the door of the room, and said, 
in a voice of deep emotion, 

“ Sir, a deputation from Charenton wants to see 
you.” 


THE GOLDEN CALF. 203 

‘‘ Show them in, and I will see them presently,” said 
the priest. 

“ Bring them here,” said Sabine; “ they are, we might 
say, part of the family.” 

Baptiste went out for the workmen, and soon ushered 
in about twenty of them. They were men of various 
ages, all scrupulously neat in their personal appearance. 

“ Pardon us,” said the spokesman, ‘‘ for intruding 
upon you here, and, so to say, forcing your door; but 
our reason is important. Not a moment is to be lost in 
a matter which we have so much at heart. Terrible news 
is placarded on the walls; and, in spite of reassuring 
words from some of the papers, we suspect the fearful 
truth. We have come to you, our guide and counsellor, 
to ask your advice, and whether you are of opinion 
that France will be conquered in this war, and Paris 
besieged ?” 

“I still hope that France will repel the foe which has 
now set foot upon her territory; but Paris will be be- 
sieged.” 

“ Then who will defend it ? Our soldiers are on the 
frontiers.” 

“ The Parisians,” answered the abbe. 

‘‘We wanted but the word, sir,” cried the man; “for 
we know that your advice will coincide with the dictates 
of honor. If the Parisians have to defend Paris, they 
must know how to hold a musket. Our comrades are 
frantic since yesterday’s news; they long to fight like 
lions. This is our idea: since the beginning of the war 
labor is at a standstill. Let us stop all ornamental work 
for the present. The founders will find plenty to do; for 
cannon and artillery will be needed before long. They 
can serve their country by preparing engines of war; 
and the others — well, the others must learn to be soldiers 
as fast as they can. We will unite in forming an inde- 


204 


IDOLS. 


pendent battalion. And we have come to ask you to be 
our chaplain.” 

“ Brave men !” cried the priest, shaking hands with 
the foremost; “ worthy sons of France! I accept with 
all my heart. You, arms in hand, and I with the cruci- 
fix, will do our duty before God and men.” 

“And I?” said Sabine, stepping forward. “And I, | 
brother?” 

“ You will go to Charenton. Assist these brave men’s i 
wives. Tell them from me that their husbands shall re- 
ceive their usual salary as long as the war lasts. Then, | 
as we have to look forward to great trials and stern | 
realities, you must choose the most intelligent women, | 
and with them organize an ambulance in the factory. The | 
wounded can be brought thither. Draw as largely as i 
you please upon our coffers; for we shall be always rich 
if we always succeed in doing good.” I 

“Ah, Mademoiselle,” cried Blanc-Cadet, “we shall 
fight with tenfold courage, when we have the consolation 
of knowing that if a ball should strike one of us he shall | 
be brought to our dear factory and cared for by you.” ‘ 

, “We are only paying our father’s debt, good friends,” | 
said Sabine; “ the fortune which we now enjoy was made ^ 
by you ; it is just that it now be of assistance to you. I 
You know that even before our recent afflictions we 
always had your welfare at heart. Your wives and I 
daughters will henceforth be our sisters; I adopt your ! 
children. U any of you should fall upon the field of ' 
battle he will leave no orphans, they will belong thence- 
forth to the Pomereul family.” 

There were few dry eyes among the group when she 
had finished, but the Abbe Sulpice resumed: ^ 

“And it must be understood that I shall take upon 
myself the equipment of the men; any of you who have 
been soldiers can drill the others. This very day I will J 




THE GOLDEN CALF. 


205 


go to the archbishop and ask his approval. I shall not 
see you again to-day, as I have a great deal to do, but 
to-morrow I shall meet you without fail.” 

“To-morrow,” repeated Sabine. 

The workmen then withdrew, with renewed acknowl- 
edgments to Sulpice and Sabine, and the young priest 
almost immediately left his sister. 

“ My path is' now marked out for me,” said he; “ let us 
be with God, and God will be with us.” 

Sabine spent the afternoon in arranging papers, and 
disposing of everything, as if for a long absence. At six 
o’clock her brother returned. 

“ On the eve of the gladiatorial combats,” said he to 
his sister, “ the martyrs always took their last meal to- 
gether. I will share yours this evening.” 

“ Ah, Sulpice, do you already think of death ?” 

“ I want at least to be ready,” said he. “ But do not 
be downcast. For it seems to me that my mission will 
be long, and that I have yet to save Xavier.” 

Then he kissed her upon the forehead. 

“ It is, my dear sister,” said he, “ the brother’s kiss and 
it is also the priest’s benediction. And now hold out 
your arm.” 

She did so, and the Abbe Pomereul fastened thereupon 
the white shield bearing the Geneva Cross. 

The young girl knelt down before him. 

“ My brother,” said she, “ and my father also, for you are 
my spiritual father, bless this life which will be exposed 
henceforth for my neighbor, and bless my death should 
God take me.” 

“Rise, Christian,” said the priest when he had blessed 
her; “ it is the will of God.” 


2o6 


IDOLS. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

The War. 

On the night of the-ist October, 1870, a party of young 
men were gathered round a camp fire. It was very cold. 
And in spite of many armfuls of wood and logs thrown 
upon the embers, they could scarcely keep warm. They 
held their hands over the blaze which now rose into the 
air, and again, driven downwards by a blast of wind, al- 
most scorched their faces. They were silent. At that 
crisis the thoughts of men, and especially of those who 
had taken up arms to defend the ramparts, were marked 
by a melancholy gravity. The beginning of that dis- 
astrous war had been remarkable for heroic efforts, for 
deeds of valor worthy the archives of glory; but, by a 
strange fatality, or by the incompetence of those who 
had usurped power on the 4th of September, all this 
courage, valor and enthusiasm were nullified. The 
National Guard, and the volunteers not being called to 
arms, were consumed with secret rage, thinking of the 
perils which threatened the capital on every side. 

Each time that the call resounded in Paris they rose, 
sniffed the air, scenting the powder, and attaching the 
last green branches to their muskets, thus saluting in 
advance the victory which was to break up the brazen 
column that now threatened the besieged city with de- 
struction. Every evening, alas! the remnants of heroic 
battalions returned from the slaughter blood-stained, 
weary, their numbers lessened, blaming their com- 
manders, who had made them believe that the war would 


THE WAR. 


207 


be a war of extermination, and who veiled their cow- 
ardice under an appearance of devoted patriotism. 

That night the hearts of the young soldiers were burst- 
ing with indignation. 

Ever and anon one of them raised his head with a 
threatening scowl upon his face, or another examined 
the condition of his arms, while a third wrote in a note- 
book his will in favor of those dear ones whom he could 
scarcely hope to see again. Ever and anon a young 
artist, who was among the little group of patriots, re- 
cited some martial verses from the poets, or sang one of 
those military airs which so often serve to revive droop- 
ing courage, and to thrill the soul with love of country. 

This little group of men, who gathered grave and stern 
around their camp fire, chilled by the cold night air, were 
all artists, students, or men of letters. They had been 
carefully chosen, poets, painters, sculptors and novelists, 
undertaking with noble enthusiasm and generous valor 
the defence of their beloved Paris, destined to be so 
treacherously betrayed. 

In truth since the very commencement of that succes- 
sion of disasters, unparalleled, in history, they had indulged 
in much lawful anger, and shed many tears; but once 
the word went forth to stand, they were found arms in 
hand, with courageous hearts, a resolute, brave and noble 
phalanx, waiting to be cut to pieces, less indeed by the 
enemy than by the misdeeds of those who should have 
sustained them, and whose only aim seems to have been 
to act the Judas. 

“ What a dreary vigil!” said the youngest of the 
watchers suddenly breaking silence; “far better the roar 
of cannon than this death-like stillness. When the sound 
of artillery strikes upon the ear, then, at least, we can 
fight, struggle, and take our chance of victory or a glori- 
ous death. But when all is quiet, and we feel that in 


208 


IDOLS. 


these nights of perfect calm we are wasting our lives 
and consuming our provisions, on my word it drives one 
mad.” 

Yes, Gildas,” said another, whose face as the fire- 
light fell upon it was dark with despair, while his voice 
sounded hoarse and unnatural, “ yes, Gildas, better the 
struggle than such repose as this. What say you, Bene- 
dict?” he added, turning to one of the group, who sat 
with his face hidden in his hands. 

“I say,” answered the young sculptor, “that I pray 
Heaven to be among the first killed upon the field of 
battle when we are exposed to fire. I am weary of this 
defence which is not a defence, of this marching and 
never advancing; of victories which end in retreat, of the 
day’s orders which resound with the names of obscure 
soldiers who must be forgotten to-morrow.” 

“It is true,” said a dramatic author, who was taking 
notes on a tablet. “We are spectators of a bloody tra- 
gedy, and when the flag goes down we cannot exclaim 
with the ancient armies, even in their defeat, ‘ All is lost, 
save honor.’ The soldiers have indeed sustained their 
former reputation. But what will the leaders, the mem- 
bers of that usurping and incompetent government, an- 
swer to France when it demands of them, ‘What have 
you done with my sons ? They were willing to fight, to die, 
through you it has ended in a bloody farce.’ Ah! may 
the shame at least fall upon them. I swear that if we 
come forth defeated from this struggle I, at least, will 
do my utmost to place the stigma of infamy where it is 
due.” 

“Think of the long list of battles lost,” cried Benedict 
Fougerais in a tone of feverish excitement. “When we 
remember with what ardor the soldiers marched to 
battle, and witness the result of the struggle, it fills us 
with shame, terror and amazejnent.” 


THE WAR. 


209 


“How proud we were,” continued Gildas, “when the 
first battle took place outside of Paris, on the 19th of Sep- 
tember. At Chatillon, Clamart and Plessis-Piquetour 
troops made a brave but useless defence; and the Bre- 
tons rushed into the thickest of the fight, with the scapu- 
lar on their breasts and a hymn on their lips, their ven- 
erable chaplain following them into battle, animating 
them, consoling when they fell, and praying over the 
grave which he dug for them. Such details brought 
tears to our eyes and filled us with enthusiasm; but when 
these brave men had won a position, they were recalled 
and hindered from pushing their victory farther.” 

“Ah, but it was worse next day,” exclaimed Benedict. 
“ Gildas you remember, and you, Lionel. The Prussians, 
from their ambush, kept up a furious fire upon the forts of 
Aubervilliers and Noisy. The order was given in Paris, 
and the Bretons set out like the brave men they are, sing- 
ing and vowing to return as conquerors. How they did 
fight ! with what wonderful daring they skirmished about 
Bondy before making the assault ! And when they had 
not only made good their position, but would have pur- 
sued the enemy, they were as usual commanded to retreat, 
which they did in good order, according to the reports. 

“Oh,” he cried after a pause, “if they had but called 
out a hundred or two hundred thousand of the national 
guard, sharp-shooters, infantry, volunteers, all under dif- 
ferent names united for the same end. Only the word 
would have been needed. ‘ Dig a trench,’ and the trench 
would have been dug. But, instead, a few battalions are 
ordered out, and go to unavailing butchery. In the history 
of all great sieges every man took up arms and fought, 
and when there were no more men to guard the ramparts, 
the women sufficed to defend them, and God be praised ! 
the women of Paris once roused have heroism enough 
for anything.” 


210 


IDOLS. 


“You are right,” said Gildas, “and that is why when- 
ever I see one of those heroic creatures wearing upon her 
arm the Geneva Cross I take off my hat with profound 
respect. People rail against the Parisian woman for her 
levity, her coquetry, her love of dress and of luxury; but 
there remains in her something of that old valor which 
belonged to the peasant girl who led the Parisians to 
their defence against Attila, and braved the fury of the 
‘ Scourge of God.’ ” 

“When we consider,” said an old man, raising his tall 
figure gradually from the ground, “that the occupation 
of the village of Vitry and of Moulin Saquet by the 
Mauduit division had no result, any more than when on 
the following day it took up a splendid position at 
Villejuif.” 

“And at the very same time,” said Gildas, “Admiral 
Saisset did something brilliant in the way of reconnoit- 
ring, and finished his retreat by inches.” 

“ Always retreat,” cried Benedict. “ Read the bulletins. 
* The troops fell back in good order.’ The permanent 
occupation of places taken not seeming advisable, a re- 
treat is made with the most wonderful coolness. Well, 
I say, let us have done with it; let us have no more re- 
treat, no more falling back; we have had enough of this 
child’s play, at which the enemy must be laughing be- 
hind its bastions ! Come now. Colonel, you are a vet- 
eran, and have fought on many fields, and I ask you is 
this what you understand by war?” 

An old man with white moustachios and figure some- 
what bent, whom Benedict addressed as colonel, though 
he wore none of the insignia of such a rank, shook his 
head and answered in a voice, husky at first, but which 
gradually became clear and ringing. 

“No, gentlemen, I will tell my children, as I have al- 
ready told my old soldiers. I was at Sebastopol, and 


THE WAR. 


2II 


when we heard the order, ‘ To the assault ! ’ no leader ever 
dared to stop us on our way to victory. I have fought 
in Africa against the Arabs, and the watch-word amongst 
us was, ‘Retu 'n as conquerors or not at all.’ Why, the 
Spartan mothei . had more military genius than the gen- 
erals of to-day. ‘Above or below,’ said they to their 
sons, as they buckled on their shields. In Mexico — a bad 
country it was— but every one did his duty. In Italy, 
wherever, in fact, I have heard the roar of cannon or the 
whistling of bullets, the order was ‘Go forward,’ and 
none ever dared to say ‘Fall back,’ till the enemy were 
defeated or put to flight. That is why, do you see, the 
old Colonel, who was wont to lead his Zouaves to fire, 
would rather serve like you as private soldiers, than com- 
mand men who might one day cast upon him the stigma 
of a shameful defeat. I would willingly have offered my 
country my long experience of war, and such military 
genius as is the result of sudden inspirations; but I might 
have been cast into the shade, and the orders of incom- 
petent superiors so enrage me that I would break my 
old sword. I might perhaps have given bad example to 
my men by blaming their leaders, so I became a soldier, 
and when the time comes I will shed my blood for my 
country.” 

“Ah ! it is deplorable,” cried Benedict. “ Paris will be 
taken, when if she had been otherwise governed she 
might have been triumphant. People hearing me might 
accuse me of want of patriotism. Yet God knows I love 
France, but to defend a city leaders are wanted as well 
as an army. A struggle to the death, but an intelligent 
and reasonable one; blood must flow in profusion, but 
let it at least bring forth the fruits of victory.” 

“ Yes,” continued the old Colonel, “ who would count the 
cost if victory could be won ? But unhappily, as it now 
stands, those who are not traitors or eager only for their 


212 


IDOLS. 


own ends, are incompetent. France, which once pos- 
sessed such scores of famous leaders, has still many brave 
and devoted generals, but not one of that calibre who, 
appearing in a great national crisis, saves a country by the 
sole power of his genius. Loyalty is not always sufficient. ” 
I swear,” cried Benedict, “that the moment they show 
us a given point of attack with the word ‘ Advance,’ I 
will advance without troubling myself about counter 
orders.. And if victory is not for us I shall continue to 
fight, even though I remain alone among the enemy, and 
fall to rise no more.” 

After a moment’s pause, he resumed in a tone of deep 
bitterness, 

“ For after all why should we value our lives so much ? 
We have left fragments of our hearts on so many bram- 
bles that they are in shreds. To survive our defeat would 
be the most terrible of all our misfortunes. Having no 
other idol, we have kept that of military glory. We smile 
with gratified pride at sight of our flag. A stranger 
detects the note of haughty joy in our voices when we 
say, ‘We are Frenchmen.’ If, then, we must renounce 
this noble pride, hang down our heads and descend from 
our rank among the nations with agony such as we alone 
can know, then I say better, far better, to lie buried in 
the open grave of our country.” 

“Wrong, Benedict,” cried Gildas, “wrong; even should 
the military glory of France be forever tarnished — and 
of that we need not despair — her artistic glory will still 
remain.” 

At this moment a scout arrived. 

“ Give me place at the fire and a mouthful of cognac,” 
said he. 

Room was made for him, and a gourd offered him. 
When he had somewhat warmed his frozen limbs, he 
said, rubbing his hands, 

“Good news, my lads, we fight to-morrow.” 


THE WAR. 


213 


“ For a certainty ?” 

“ For a certainty !” 

“ Who told you ?" 

“An aide-de-camp of General Noel’s.” 

“Where ?” 

“ At Malmaison.” 

“Are we among those who are to fight?” 

“Yes, all of us, Franchetti’s Infantry, the Amis de la 
France, and every one has sworn to fight unto death.” 

“ Provided,” said the Colonel, “ that the force be con- 
siderable.” 

“ General Noel is decided upon that course.” 

“Yes, but those above General Noel?” 

“Well,” cried the new-comer, “if we are again ordered 
to desert a position once taken I will break my sword, 
for it will then be useless.” 

“ No,” cried the Colonel, “ no one has a right to do 
that now.” 

“ But if we are driven to despair?” 

“We cannot despair of God nor of France.” 

The new-comer then proceeded to give an animated 
account of the plan of action. 

The little group listened with feverish interest. 

“ The troops for the assault will be formed into three 
detachments,” said he, “ each having its own artillery. 
General Berthaut will command the first, marching at 
the head with 3400 infantry, sustained by a squadron of 
cavalry and twenty pieces of ordnance.” 

“ What position does General Berthaut intend to oc- 
cupy ?” asked one of the listeners. 

“ He will lie between the St. Germain Railroad and the 
upper part of the village of Rueil.” 

“ And the second detachment ?” asked the Colonel. 

“Will be commanded by General Noel,” answered the 
scout. 

“At last,” cried Benedict, “our turn has come.” 


214 


IDOLS. 


“ But there will be fewer men and less artillery on our 
side, comrades,” continued the scout. 

“We will supply the want of both by, redoubled brav- 
ery,” said the Colonel. 

“Thirteen hundred and fifty men and ten cannon,” 
said the .scout. 

“ Where are we to be placed ?” asked Benedict 

“We are to fill np the ravine stretching between St. 
Conflans and Bougival, and force the park of Mal- 
maison.” 

“Then the intention is to dislodge the Prussians?” 

“To the last one,” answered the scout. 

The Colonel shook his head. 

“At the worst,” he said, “we know how to die.” 

“The last detachment,” continued the new-comer, 
“under the command of Colonel Cholleton, will consist 
of sixteen hundred infantry.” 

“That is very little,” said Benedict. 

“A squadron of cavalry will take up its position in 
front of the old mill above Rueil, and unite the right 
flank with the left.” 

“ How many pieces of artillery ?” asked the Colonel. 

“ Eighteen, I believe,” answered the young man. 
“ Moreover, there will be two reserve forces, one ranged 
to the left under General Martinet, and consisting of 
2600 infantry; the others towards the centre with 2000 
infantry, two squadrons of cavalry, and 46 cannon for 
the whole reserve.” 

“ A total,” said the Colonel, “ of 10,950 men, 4 squadrons 
of cavalry and 94 cannon.” 

“ What is your opinion. Colonel ?” asked Benedict. 

“That it would require,” answered the Colonel, “four 
times the number to attain such a result. Ah ! what a 
disastrous war.” 

“Yes,” cried Benedict; “the great and chivalrous bat- 


THE WAR. 


215 


ties recorded in military annals were not such as this. 
There is no such thing as real fighting. We shoot from 
a hollow. We are killed by a distant enemy whom we 
do not even see, and fall without a struggle ingloriously. 
Bravery in the present meaning of the word is the 
going to some appointed place, and as our comrades 
fall closing up the ranks. But that does not stir 
the blood. Colonel, as of old when it meant to sustain, 
man to man, the enemy’s charge, to defend the ground 
foot to foot, to take his life or give up your own, to feel, 
in a word, that frenzy of battle, that fever of the blood 
and of the brain which takes from our view all but the 
enemy, and leaves no sound but the voice which urges 
us ‘Forward, forward.’” 

“Brave boy!” cried the Colonel; “you feel as I felt 
when first I rushed to the field. My first battles were 
like festivals to me. I dreamed of glory — military glory 
in its most intoxicating form. No feat seemed impossi- 
ble; if one step higher, an order or decoration repaid my 
daring. When I began as a humble soldier, my mind 
full of the glorious traditions of our martial past, I saw 
myself in anticipation a general or even a marshal of 
France. Had not names more obscure than mine arisen 
to popularity, and won such triumphs ? But I had come 
tpo late. There was no more to be gained in conquered 
countries; war had had its day. Our rapid campaigns 
in Russia, China and Mexico did not even interest the 
provinces. Glory was all very well, but we had need of 
rest. People began to ask themselves why their blood 
was necessary to the ambition of two men. I scarcely 
believed another war possible, when the King of Prussia, 
invoking the God of armies to bless his arms, set foot 
upon our soil. In this unequal struggle a tremendous 
outburst of military ardor could alone save us; as it is, 
there is no hope for us. Ten thousand men come for- 


2I6 


IDOLS. 


ward where a hundred thousand are required. We fight 
like lions and do not win. If we dislodge a Prussian 
troop from its position, the black adder of a new bat- 
talion replaces the first. The circle of fire and of iron 
must enclose us, and we shall be victims sacrificed to 
the short-sightedness and incompetence of our leaders. 
Meanwhile let us fight — struggle — prove that we value 
something else more than our fortune, and if Paris must 
perish, let it bury us in its ruins.” 

A sober silence followed the Colonel’s words. 

The tactics followed by the generals since the com- 
mencement of the war proved the justice of his reason- 
ing. Silently and sadly the men gazed absently at the 
fire, the warm tints of which glowed upon their faces. 
No sound was heard save the measured tread of the sen- 
tries. Each one thought of all he held dearest, and from 
the depths of his soul bade farewell to those whom in 
all probability he would see no more. 

“Boys,” said the Colonel, “follow the last advice of 
an old trooper; wrap yourselves in your blankets, and 
sleep till the drums awake you at daybreak; a soldier 
should be in good condition on the morning of a battle.” 

Gildas, the young scout, and others of the party fol- 
lowed his advice. But Benedict did not move; he sat 
still regarding the dying light of the watch-fire till it was 
almost extinguished, when he rose to get some wood. 
The wood crackled and soon leaped into a flame. The 
young man, drawing a note-book from his pocket, wrote 
by the light of the fire for half an hour with feverish 
rapidity. 

His last thought was for Sabine Pomereul. 

In his heart’s testament, drawn out thus on the eve of 
battle when his return was uncertain, he declared to her 
that, in despair at having lost her, he had been led away 
from the path she had traced out for him in those old. 


THE WAR. 


217 


^^PPy flays. He begged her to pardon his weakness, 
and concluded by saying, “I am going to fight for 
France, and if I die, the ball which kills me will do me 
less harm than your rejection.” 

As if soothed by her memory he followed the example 
of his companions, and wrapping himself in his great- 
coat went to sleep. He awoke at the sound of drums 
in the distance. 

All trace of despondency had vanished from the minds 
of Benedict and his companions. They were going to 
battle. It was one against three, but what did it matter ? 
they never gave it a thought. They all could remember 
battles won against greater odds. 

The enemy was intrenched at Malmaison. They had 
to carry the place by assault. 

After all it was a hand-to-hand fight at the point of 
the bayonet; it was to shoot down with rifle balls, or 
break heads with the butt end of muskets; and this point 
gained, to descend like an avalanche upon the bulk of 
the enemy, to make a gap at any cost, and so break the 
iron chain which was enclosing Paris. 

O brave, beautiful, heroic youth ! When we behold 
those improvised soldiers already inured to the hardships 
of camp life, we can understand how culpable were the 
chiefs who did not profit by such valor. The Colonel 
himself was no longer the cold speculator of the evening 
previous, the judge of a party whose adversaries he 
measured, and whose strokes he counted in anticipation. 
The roll of drums, the clank of arms, the neighing of 
horses, the sight of muskets, and, above all, of the flag 
which they were to follow and to defend, reanimated the 
old hero of the Russian and African campaigns. 

At some distance were seen the great vehicles, sur- 
mounted by the white flag marked with a red cross, in- 
dicating that the International Aid Society was ready to 


2i8 


IDOLS. 


play its humane part. Priests passed through the ranks, 
grave and recollected, now giving to one soldier their 
blessing, to another some advice, or distributing medals 
and scapulars, the shields of faith which, if they did not 
guarantee against wounds, at least preserved the wearers 
from despair and unbelief. Occasionally a soldier was 
seen to call a priest aside to a deserted part of the camp, 
to kneel and receive absolution for his sins, and rise with 
a more sublime and resolute courage in his face. There 
was no singing or laughing, jokes attempted fell on 
unresponsive ears. They waited the signal for depart- 
ure. General Noel appeared, passed the men rapidly 
in review, and cried “ Forward !” 

The wheels of the artillery sounded on the road, the 
flags were unfurled, the standards floated to the wind, 
and the soldiers marched with a buoyant tread inspired 
by their eagerness for battle. 

This handful of men, for they were only 1300, had 
sworn to do marvels. During the march no word was 
exchanged save oaths of mutual protection in case of 
danger. None were strangers to each other in the hour 
of battle. Men became brothers as readily as if they 
were upon the brink of the grave. At length General 
Noel’s troop arrived at the ravine of St. Conflans, in 
sight of the park of Malmaison. General Noel was soon 
joined by General Berthaut. It was about one in the 
afternoon. All at once the artillery opened a furious fire. 
The soldiers could distinguish nothing amid this hurricane 
of iron. The smell of powder invigorated them. But the 
infantry was forced to remain inactive, blinded by the 
smoke of the artillery, and unable to discern the position 
which they were to carry. Eagerly they awaited the 
cessation of firing to take part in the action. At length, 
at an order from General Noel, the infantry advanced, 
crawling upon the earth, concealing themselves in the 


THE WAR. 


219 


undulations of the ground or behind the walls or shrub- 
bery, their ears on the alert, their muskets leaded, till 
they had approached the object in view — Malmaison. 
The park was full of Prussians who had thrown up 
therein gigantic works. Groups of soldiers had taken 
shelter behind the crenelated walls. From every loop- 
hole death came swift and terrible upon the soldiers who 
were to storm the intrenchment. It is true the fire of 
artillery occupied the enemy, and covered the French 
whilst they carried out General Noel’s plan. But at a 
given signal the artillery instantaneously ceased firing, 
and the troops advanced with admirable valor. Little 
time sufficed for them to gain the ravine which leads 
downwards from the stream of St. Cucufa to the Ameri- 
can railroad intersecting. Malmaison. The left flank 
under General Noel passed the ravine with wonderful 
impetuosity, and climbed the heights leading to La 
Jonchere. As they pursued their way a terrible volley 
of musketry burst from the woods and the houses. The 
Prussians had taken up position in spite of the fire of 
artillery, and it seemed impossible to brave that storm 
of balls and musketry. 

“Well,” cried Benedict, turning to his comrades, “are 
we to remain here ?” 

“ How can we go on ?” asked another. 

“You see that even the General hesitates,” said Gildas. 

“ But there is no hesitation for me, I swear,” cried 
Benedict; “if they cry. Go back, I will go forward. I 
came to fight and fight I will. If I am afterwards ac- 
cused of want of discipline, so be it. Who has a right 
to care for our lives if not ourselves ?” 

Benedict was not mistaken; the General, seeing that 
his troops would be cut to pieces by the enemy, gave the 
order to retreat; the soldiers hesitated, and would, per- 
haps, have obeyed, when the Colonel cried, 


220 


IDOLS. 


Boys, let all who love me follow me. We will join 
the others above !” 

An electric thrill was felt In the ranks; a hundred 
young soldiers sprang forward, and rushing through fire 
and smoke, disappeared from the gaze of their compan- 
ions, going over the ground with incredible rapidity. 
Ten of them fell in this rapid ascent. Alas ! none could 
stop to raise them. They were constantly under fire, 
and they could not pause a moment till they had effected 
a junction with the Zouaves of the brave commander 
Jacquot. It was a goodly sight to see him among those 
bronzed soldiers, brave as lions, rushing on to the com- 
bat, dashing against the crenelated walls of the park, 
like a tremendous wave dashing against the rock as if 
to uproot it. 

The shots came, they could scarce perceive whence. 
Those who fell served as ladders to the others. It was 
a terrible but withal a beautiful sight. 

The Zouaves, collected in the angle formed by the park 
of Malmaison, below La Jonchere, performed prodigies 
of valor, and notwithstanding the bristling breastworks, 
notwithstanding the cannon pointed through each em- 
brasure, effected a breach and leaped resolutely into the 
park. A fearful conflict ensued. Hand to hand, tooth 
and nail, they fought; heads were used for battering rams, 
bayonets for poniards, the butt ends of muskets for bat- 
tle-axes. The Prussians, ten times more numerous than 
the Zouaves, rushed upon the handful of valiant men 
who, intrenching themselves against the walls, fought a 
terrible, furious, desperate fight, strewing the ground with 
corpses. The fusillade had just ceased in the park when 
by the widening breach rushed in the troops of which 
Benedict, Gildas and the Colonel formed part. At last 
their desire was accomplished. The struggle was a per- 
sonal one and terrible in the extreme; they measured 


THE WAR. 


221 


themselves against the enemy; the fury of battle, the 
thirst for vengeance, and, above all, the heroic feeling of 
defending their native land, took from them all thought 
save that of victory, even though it was at the cost of 
their blood. Gildas forgot that he had written pages 
which gave promise that he would become a first-class 
writer; Benedict forgot his glory as a sculptor, and the 
Colonel his old bitterness. They had but one thought, 
that they were Frenchmen, brothers, heroes, exposing 
their lives as a last rampart against the blows of the 
enemy. Gildas, carried away by his valor, had become 
detached from his comrades, and was assailed by a score 
of Prussians, defending himself bravely at the point of 
the bayonet, or beating about him with the end of his 
musket, breaking heads and wrists alike, and dealing 
death about him. But vigorous as he was he became 
exhausted; several weapons were directed against him, 
and the young man fell, uttering one cry. 

“ Benedict, help !” 

The appeal was answered. 

“ I am here, brother !” 

With a bayonet in each hand and a third between his 
teeth Benedict sprang to his assistance, wounding right 
and left with his triangular weapon. Blood flowed freely; 
howls of pain mingled with threats of vengeance. The 
whole rage of the Prussians was turned against the sculp- 
tor. Gildas rose at first upon one knee, then upon both, 
and at last, getting upon his feet, hurried to Benedict’s 
side, for he in his generous ardor had rushed into the 
very midst of his assailants. 

That was not a battle, it was a massacre. Zouaves, 
infantry, volunteers, all performed prodigies of heroism, 
crushing the enemy against the walls of the park of which 
it had made a fortress. It was one of those incidental 
feats not mentioned by generals in their reports because 


222 


IDOLS. 


not witnessed by them, but which remain in the memory 
of all who have followed the history of that epoch of 
patriotism. 

The Prussians, despairing of being able to hold the 
position,, abandoned it hastily. The Zouaves remained in 
possession. In the heat of the battle Benedict saw their 
commander Jacquot totter, struck by a ball. He rushed 
to his assistance, supported him, and at length succeeded 
in bringing him to a sheltered spot, where in a hollow of 
the ground he laid him. Benedict returned to the field. 
To him the victory seemed incomplete; it was not suffi- 
cient to have driven the enemy from their position, but 
to pursue them. Victory had declared for France, but 
the advantage must be preserved. As they looked 
around them how many of the comrades did they per- 
ceive dead and wounded before their eyes ! 

The order for departure was given. 

What i abandon this formidable position which they 
had so hardly won! Their assault then was in vain, 
was but a gross insult to these brave men, a bloody 
mockery of noble sentiments. Again had men been sent 
to die, to rally the others, and to be ordered back to the 
city ! 

Benedict felt his blood boil at the very thought. 

“ My friends,” said he to his companions, “ this is 
shameful treachery; to return to Paris now is to break 
our oath. We are soldiers, it is true, but volunteer sol- 
diers; the heroes of to-day and perchance the martyrs of 
to-morrow, not men from whom discipline has taken 
away all idea of thinking for themselves. We may be 
rash, perhaps, and insubordinate, but we will not go 
back.” 

“No, no,” cried twenty voices. 

The bugles sounded, the drums beat a retreat. 

“Forward!” cried Benedict. 


THE WAR. 


223 


And with his group of friends he rushed in pursuit of 
the Prussians. On went the latter heedless of death, 
unconscious of wounds, scarce pausing to note those who 
fell from fatigue, and whom they trampled under foot. 
Their panic carried them across the park, and already 
had they leaped the enclosure, when the arrival of a 
large force of their own troops changed the whole aspect 
of affairs. With this unlooked-for help their courage 
revived. The little band of Frenchmen, carried away by 
their ardor, waited for no help. Alone in the midst of 
that immense park full of threatening shadows, believing 
the victory already theirs, they suddenly found them- 
selves not alone obliged to fight the battle over to ensure 
victory, but to fight and to die without hope of deliver- 
ance. The Colonel, Gildas, Benedict, and their com- 
panions found themselves in an instant surrounded by 
Prussians. They bethought themselves then of that im- 
mortal battalion which, at Waterloo, held the English in 
check till the last of the heroes had fallen, stricken unto 
death; and with the promptitude which sprang from their 
imminent peril, they formed a solid group and faced the 
enemy, ready to die, but not unavenged. 

So proud and warlike was their aspect that the Prus- 
sians saw at once the victory would not be an easy one. 
They could no longer fight with the musket, so that the 
sabre or bayonet was all that remained to these cham- 
pions of death. Poor Gildas, wounded in the right arm, 
fought with the left; a blow from a musket felled him to 
the earth. Benedict with two of his comrades was fight- 
ing still, but he received a dangerous wound upon the 
head, and fell in his turn upon a heap of dead. 

That was the end of their heroic struggle. The Prus- 
sians disappeared during the night. Whilst they evacu- 
ated the park two infantry men who were only slightly 
wounded rose, and groping their way in the darkness, 


224 


IDOLiS. 


summoned up all their strength, seeking egress from 
the park, and perhaps a place in an ambulance wagon. 
They hoped to have litters sent for such of their com- 
panions as were still alive. Doubtless there must be as 
many wounded as dead among the heaps of motionless 
forms upon the field. But, if these young men’s courage 
was great, their exhaustion was great. Weary and 
bleeding freely profusely from wounds hastily staunched, 
they could scarcely keep upon their feet. The way was 
strewn with heaps of corpses, forming terrible furrows 
on the ground. Ever and anon from some hollow in 
the earth, or a heap of wounded, rose a plaintive moan: 
some unfortunate asking help, a dying soldier craving a 
drop of water to ease the sufferings which death was 
soon to end. The two men were losing hope both for 
themselves and their unfortunate comrades; not a lantern 
glimmered before them; far as the eye could reach all 
was darkness; nothing could be heard but the heavy 
tread of the retreating French forces who, more discour- 
aged than ever, cursed in their hearts the infatuation or 
worse of those who had ordered a retreat. 

The two soldiers felt that soon they themselves would 
have to lie down and die. 

All at once they saw a glimmer of light in the dis- 
tance. 

A dark figure soon became dimly perceptible; it seemed 
to stoop every moment and rise again, no doubt examin- 
ing the faces of the dead, who, 'with features distorted by 
agony, and their useless weapons still clenched in their 
stiffened hands, called Heaven, as it were, to witness their 
defeat. A simultaneous cry for help escaped from the two 
soldiers. Guided by their voices the figure and the light 
began to advance in their direction, slowly, indeed, for 
the heaps of dead constantly barred the passage; the man 
stumbled over corpses and his feet slipped in the blood, 


THE WAR. 


225 


delaying his difficult progress. As he came near the 
others saw him distinctly by the light of the lantern. In 
its pale and tremulous rays he had somewhat the appear- 
ance of a supernatural being. A red scar showed with 
cruel distinctness on the marble white of his face, and 
gave a sort of sublimity to the incomparable sweetness 
of its expression. The whole figure resembled those of 
the martyrs, who, like their Divine Master, received a 
crown of thorns, or were seared with red hot irons. A 
black robe, caught up a little in the broad sash so as not 
to impede his motion, enveloped the tall figure. A cru- 
cifix hung at his wrist, and a Geneva Cross was distinctly 
visible upon the sleeve of his cassock. 

‘‘You are a priest,” said one of the soldiers; “are you 
alone ?” 

“ Yes !” 

“ Are there any ambulance wagons near by ?” 

“ The ambulance wagons of the International Aid are 
crowded with the dying, and every litter is also in use. 
Where are the wounded wjiom you wish to succor?” 

“Alas! we do not know,” said they, “we can only hope 
that our comrades are not all dead.” 

“ Come,” said the priest, “ I have two arms, and can at 
least save one poor fellow. Bring me to where I can be 
of use.” 

After a fatiguing walk they brought him into the 
park, now transformed into a vast cemetery. Those 
who had fallen in the first struggle were stiff and cold; 
the victims of the more recent one were still warm with 
life. It was a fearful task, this searching among the 
dead. The three men constantly paused and knelt upon 
the ground, seeking, by the wan light of the lantern, for 
the faintest motion of heart or pulse. Alas! all whom 
they thus examined were dead. 

Among a heap of corpses, many of whom seemed bv 


226 


IDOLS. 


their uniform to be foemen who had fallen by his hand, 
lay a young man, the heaving of whose chest showed 
that life was not yet extinct. His breast was torn open 
by a wound more ghastly than deep. His face was 
covered with a mask of blood flowing from a gash upon 
the forehead. He was breathing, indeed, but could they 
hope that he would survive being carried to a distance? 

Another wounded man attracted their attention by 
his groans. At length he managed to raise himself, cry- 
ing wildly, “A second retreat is commanded. Oh, the 
cowards, the traitors!” 

It was the Colonel, who had taken up again his old 
grief and hatred with the breath of returning life. 

He supported himself on his left arm, but when he 
attempted to use the other, he muttered, “ My shoulder 
is broken.” 

One of the soldiers made a sling out of his handker- 
chief, and said to the veteran, “ Can you stand ?” 

“ I think so,” answered the Colonel. 

“ Soldiers,” said the priest, who had raised the other 
wounded man as tenderly as a mother lifts her child, 
“ I will take charge of this one. Let us go. If possible 
we will return when we leave these two in a place of 
safety.” 

The weaker of the two infantry men went on before, 
carrying the lantern, the other supported the Colonel, 
the priest bringing up the rear with the wounded man, 
whose two arms fell heavily over the priest’s shoulder, 
and whose rigid figure had every appearance of death. 
No one spoke. A sigh from the wounded man, or a groan 
from the Colonel alone broke the silence. Ever and 
anon the little group paused to take breath, and bravely 
resumed its march. 

Providence came to their assistance! A wagon rolled 
by. They called out, and were answered; it was the 


THE WAR. 


227 


ambulance belonging to the Theatre Italien. It received 
them all five. The two brave infantry men were almost 
as pale and exhausted as those they had rescued; but 
the flask offered to them revived them considerably. 

“ Where am I to leave these wounded men, sir ?” said 
the head of the ambulance corps. 

“ In the Rue de la Chaussee d’Antin, No. 15,” answered 
the priest. 

It was about ten o’clock at night when the wagon 
stopped its burden at the place indicated by the priest. 
The doors of the house were immediately thrown open, 
and men came out carrying the wounded in with inde- 
scribable care and tenderness, and placing them in a large 
apartment on the ground floor. A young girl dressed in 
Dlack, except for a white nurse’s apron and a red cross 
on her arm, advanced pale and anxious. 

“You have just come from the battle-field, brother?” 
said she. 

“ Yes,” answered the priest; “ and I have brought two 
wounded men, an old and a young one. The latter is 
€|uite irrecognizable on account of the blood.” 

He was instantly laid upon a bed, and the young girl 
approached with a fine sponge, warm water and soft 
linen bandages. His breathing was inaudible, and it al- 
most seemed that his heart had ceased to beat. The 
young nurse gently bathed the wound upon the fore- 
head, separated the hair, and washed away the dreadful 
clots of blood; the face was once more visible, though 
disfigured and pallid, and with closed eyes. The girl 
paused in her task and trembled, drew back with dilated 
eyes, and cried out in a tone of horror, 

“Sulpice, Sulpice, it is Benedict whom you have 
brought to me dying !” 

Her courage and her heart failed her at once. She 
was but a woman, and she forgot that she was just then 


228 


IDOLS. 


the only nurse in the house. A word from Sulpice re- 
called her to her mission. 

“God is witness,” said he, “that I did not recognize 
him when I raised him in my arms on the field. He is a 
guest whom God has sent us. Sabine, forget everything 
else.” 

Sabine pressed her brother’s hand. 

“ I will do my duty,” said she, “and if our Lord thinks 
I have suffered enough He will save Benedict.” 

When the doctor came next morning to visit the 
wounded he declared the Colonel’s wound to be slight, 
but pausing before Benedict shook his head. 

“Take good care of him. Mademoiselle, but in any case 
the poor boy will look at you many a day before he sees 
you, and hear the sound of your voice for long before he 
understands. Do you know him ?” asked the physician 
quickly. 

“ He was my father’s pupil and my betrothed, Bene- 
dict Fougerais.” 

“ Ah !” said the doctor, “ art has done its share in this 
fatal war. Cavelier, the author of ‘ Penelope,’ was killed ; 
Leroux is mortally wounded; Vebert may never again 
handle the brush, and Benedict Fougerais can only be 
saved by a miracle.” 

So saying the doctor went away full of grief and 
emotion. 


THE TWO BROTHERS. 


229 


CHAPTER XV, 

The Two Brothers. 

Sabine's grief at sight of her betrothed exceeded her 
strength. She was as pale as Benedict himself. Her 
eyes were dimmed with tears; sobs shook her frame; her 
knees bent under her; she fell prostrate, her face hidden 
upon the bed. 

Sulpice found her thus. 

“ Sabine,” he said ‘‘ the greater the duty the more need of 
courage. You should rather thank God that He permits 
you to nurse Benedict and perhaps save his life.” These 
words roused the young girl from her lethargy; she re- 
covered her composure, and with a hasty but fervent 
prayer for Benedict and herself sebabout her task. After 
a time the wounded man began to show signs of life; but 
though his eyes opened and fixed themselves upon Sabine, 
he knew her not. Fever had set in, and in his delirium 
he went over all the details of that terrible struggle. He 
was gentle and docile as an infant, however. He even 
smiled and seemed grateful for the care of which he 
vaguely felt he was the object, but he was not conscious 
of the presence of his betrothed, and in his wanderings 
spoke of some one whom he called Sabine, but so vaguely 
that it was difficult to distinguish whether he had his 
own Sabine in mind, or the daughter of Erwin de Stein- 
bach. Days and nights passed and sjill Sabine per- 
formed her manifold duties, bravely setting aside her 
own consuming grief. As often as possible she found 
time to visit the hapless Xavier at the prison of Ro- 
quette. His heart was not yet softened by his captivity. 
The sentence which had fallen on him, despite his inno- 


230 


IDOLS. 


cence, did not lead him contrite to the foot of the Cross. 
Cursing the injustice of men, he likewise cursed what he 
called the injustice of God. 

The chaplain of the prison vainly tried to calm and 
console him. The very sight of a cassock aroused his 
anger. In his hatred for Sulpice he included all who wore 
the same dress, and spoke to him of the same Saviour. 
Too bad a Catholic to understand the dread mystery 
which enshrouds Confession, he would fain have had his 
brother betray its secret, forgetting that he had doubted 
a hundred times of the absolute secrecy of priests. 

Sabine’s visits calmed him for the moment, but these 
brief interludes were usually embittered by the recollec- 
tion of Sulpice. He poured out all his venom and bitter- 
ness, and the poor girl felt powerless to console him. 
Far from calling religion to his aid, he dwelt forever on 
the recollections of a vanished past. Now he was at a 
gambling table with its heaps of banknotes or piles of 
glittering gold; again he was at some luxurious board, 
at a theatrical performance, or listening from his stall 
to the impassioned strains of Don Giovanni, Favorita or 
La Juive. Overcome by these memories, and contrast- 
ing the past with his present state, he began to think of 
suicide. He hesitated, however, not through any great- 
ness of soul or faith in God, but for fear of physical suf- 
fering, of which he had an inordinate dread. Besides, 
there was no hurry. . As long as they left him at Roquette 
life was endurable. But he resolved that the moment 
they spoke of New Caledonia he would manage to de- 
stroy himself, even if he had to dash out his brains against 
the wall. During the bloody reign of the Commune 
Xavier’s condition was ameliorated. The new keepers 
were indulgent to criminals, and showed more considera- 
tion for murderers than for priests dragged from the 
churches. They felt that at need they could depend upon 


THE TWO BROTHERS. 


231 


those whom the law had condemned. As they had noth- 
ing to lose, not even life, for it was under sentence, they 
would be naturally ready for any atrocity, and in Ferre, 
d’Urbain and their accomplices were found the last 
refuge of cut-throats. It is true that Xavier, low as he 
had fallen, and hardened as his judges had made him 
appear, would have shrunk from crime of any sort; but 
in times of anarchy there is always hope, and the young 
man saw liberty in bloodshed, excess and sacrilege. 

Sabine told him all that had occurred on the night of 
the battle of Buzenval; described Benedict Fougerais 
brought in covered with blood and dying, and herself 
approaching his bed like a Sister of Charity. 

“ It is all your own fault,” said Xavier; “ if you had 
married him he would not have gone.” 

“Yes, he would,” said Sabine. “ I would have been the 
first to urge him to take up arms in defence of his coun- 
try. The only difference would have been that he would 
have had a wife whose family was disgraced.” 

“Ah!” said Xavier, “ so you are another victim of Sul- 
pice’s silence.” 

“Do not speak so,” said Sabine firmly; “you have too 
little idea of holy things to understand them aright. I 
would sacrifice my life to give you freedom, and I would 
rather sacrifice my own happiness than see Sulpice false 
to his oath. Yes, we are both victims, but of a sublime 
law called duty; but I much prefer to suffer than to be 
forced to despise Sulpice. I love Benedict with my 
whole heart. From childhood upwards I remember him 
almost as part of the family, and at last my father chose 
him for me as a husband. Yet I found the courage to 
give him up. If you knew, Xavier, what comfort there 
is in faith, you would fall on your knees, were it only for 
consolation’s sake.” 

But Sabine could make no impression on her brother, 


232 


IDOLS. 


and this was another thorn in her sorely tortured heart. 
Soon, however, she had the consolation of seeing a favora- 
ble change in Benedict’s condition. The wound in the 
breast was closed, and that upon the forehead, though 
taking longer to heal, caused them no anxiety. 

Sometimes he had intervals of consciousness. There 
had been, in fact, no concussion of the brain. The* de- 
lirium of pain, the excitement of the life he had recently 
led, the great mental shocks of the various phases of the 
war, the superhuman struggle at Buzenval, had all a 
much greater share in paralyzing his faculties than even 
his terrible wounds. Thought returned slowly, but when 
he understood what was passing about him, and knew 
that he was with Sabine and Sulpice, his happiness con- 
tributed to his cure. The doctor warned Sabine not to 
deprive him of hope, declaring that a violent shock might 
be his death, and Benedict, finding her so kind and gen- 
tle, began to hope everything for the future. Sulpice 
himself brought Benedict as soon as he was able home 
to his studio on the Boulevard de Clichy. Beppo being 
scarcely sufficient to provide for his master’s wants, 
Sulpice found as nurse for him a widow whose husband 
had fallen at Montrelont. Having thus attended to the 
welfare of his friend, the priest began to devote himself 
again to his work at the factory of Charenton. The rich 
must give the example. The people had suffered and 
bled, their wounds must be staunched. But it was the 
people themselves who would not accept the offered 
help. The cannons of Montmartre were seized ; the 
muskets destined for the defence of the country were 
used in a general revolt. 

The cannon still boomed and fights were fought, but 
it was no longer soldiers and noble volunteers defending 
the sacred soil of their country. An army was, indeed 
encamped outside of Paris, besieged for the second time 


THE TWO BROTHERS. 


233 


but Paris, mutilated and bleeding, had scarcely time to 
count her ruins; they were increasing every day. 

The mob who fought in Paris, and defended the capi- 
tal against the regular army, were the members of the 
Commune, their banner, a red rag, inciting them to 
sacrilege and murder. Churches were sacked; ruffians 
openly preached their doctrine of free love in the sacred 
places. Wretches abolished all religious law, decreed the 
suppression of worship, and tore the divine Figure from 
the crucifix. Women wearing red sashes, their hair fall- 
ing in a loose net upon their back, and a leathern bag 
slung at their side, ran about among the half-drunken 
populace, vomiting out terrible blasphemies. Often great 
wagons stopped at the doors of churches, and presently 
officers of the Commune, in costumes bedizened with 
gold, and escorted by a band of pillagers, were seen to 
emerge laden with their spoils. They had ransacked 
sanctuary and sacristy, emptied the cupboards and seized 
a rich booty. 

The reign of liberty began by proscriptions. Blood 
flowed on the streets. Generals were shot in the cor- 
ners of obscure gardens. Men who had written vol- 
umes against capital punishment to screen miscreants 
from the consequences of their crime unrelentingly put 
to death whomsoever they suspected of being opposed to 
their desires or their vengeance. Many were forced into 
the service of these brigands. Night and day the Ven- 
geurs of the Commune searched houses and dragged 
thence young men and old, forcing them at the bayonet s 
point to serve in their ranks. The Rouge journals in- 
vented a language consisting of oaths and blasphemy. 
Terror was mingled with disgust, and horror surpassed 
even terror. Street boys carried about hideous pictures, 
accompanied with indecent songs or dialogues, in which 
the dead whose remains had been profaned were made 


234 


IDOLS. 


to bear a part. The convents were thrown open, under 
pretence of liberating the nuns, and the holy mystery, 
enshrouding their austerities and discipline, exposed to 
the vulgar view. Novices and professed sisters were 
alike driven into the streets, at the same time that civil 
marriage was proclaimed sufficient, and divorce made 
legal. 

Yet all these horrors, these blasphemies, these profa- 
nations, these legalized thefts, this persecution, and the 
insane ravings of the wretched rags they called their 
newspapers, did not suffice for the Communists. The 
hatred of religion produced hatred of its representatives. 
Blood could not flow fast enough for their desires. They 
would fain have had speedier and more frequent execu- 
tions. Hostages were taken who were chosen princi- 
pally from amongst the clergy and magistrates. Priests, 
both secular and religious, were brought before the tri- 
bunal of the Commune. To the great honor of the 
Parisian clergy it must be said that they rose at once to 
the height of persecution and martyrdom. They re- 
mained at their post, they continued to celebrate the 
divine office, and to expose themselves to death at the 
foot of those altars profaned by the ruffian soldiers of 
the Commune. They continued to visit the sick, teach 
the children, and every priest in Paris, deeming himself 
no greater than his Master, hourly expected to share the 
fate of the archbishop, then a prisoner at Mazas. 

Sabine had not a moment’s rest. She was in constant 
fear for Sulpice’s life or liberty, for the young priest 
would not even yield so far to the Commune as to wear 
secular clothes. He continued as usual to officiate at the 
church, and deeming himself unworthy the grace of mar- 
tyrdom, was ready to meet it if necessary. Late one 
evening, as he was passing a Communist post, a drunken 
sentry suddenly barred his passage. 


THE TWO BROTHERS. 


'OD 


‘^Citizen,” said he, “your passport.” 

“ I am a resident of Paris,” said Sulpice, mildly. 

“That’s nothing. I want your papers, your passport.” 

, “ If you come with me to the Rue Chaussee d’Antin I 
will give you all the papers you require.” 

“ So you- do not carry them about you,” said the wretch. 
“All right, I will sign your passport.” 

Drawing a revolver from his pocket he pointed it at 
Sulpice, when an officer interposed. 

“Have no fear,” he said; “but it is better for you to 
come with me to the guard-room than to remain at the 
mercy of this drunken fellow.” 

The abbe thanked the officer and followed him. After 
half an hour’s walk through streets bristling with barri- 
cades he was ushered into a sort of hall, at the door of 
which stood a sentry. Eight or ten others, some of whom 
belonged to the International Aid Society, were brought 
in shortly after. 

For two hours Sulpice was kept in this room, which was 
fairly reeking with tobacco, and ringing with the licen- 
tious songs of the half-drunken soldiery. They were 
all drinking and smoking, save those who had rolled 
drunk under the table. Meanwhile Sulpice’s name was 
taken and his case referred to the head of that detach- 
ment. The latter gave orders that the priest should be 
brought to the Prefecture. It was about six in the even- 
ing when he reached there. He was immediately brought 
before the commandant'. 

“ Where’s the accuser ?” asked he of one of the soldiers. 

“Accuser? there is none. All that is a farce. He’s 
a calotin * — a priest. A patriot has a right to condemn 
the oppressors of the people. However, the captain is 
coming.” 

* A derisive epithet in allusion to the skull-cap sometimes worn by 
priests. 


236 


IDOLS. 


The captain said a few words in a low voice to the 
commandant; the latter gave the signal, and the priest 
was surrounded, seized and thrown into a cell, whence 
they h^ that morning released a criminal. Three days 
passed before his examination took place. At the end of 
that time the Abbe Pomereul was taken out, jeered at, 
insulted and mocked by a crowd of ruffians wearing the 
red sash, and led through various corridors till he came 
to the tribunal of so-called justice. Rigaut raised his 
head, hearing a knock at the door, and gave orders that 
the prisoner should be brought in. 

It would be hard for any one that had not seen this 
wretch, who held in his hand the lives of the hostages, 
to form any idea of his face; the sharp features, the vul- 
ture-like profile, the thin lips parting over the white 
teeth, the cruel and tiger-like expression, made up a re- 
pulsive whole, which once seen was not easily forgotten. 
His very countenance breathed that gall, venom, and 
bitterness which made him condemn the just to death in 
mere hatred of virtue. 

When Sulpice was thrust into the presence of Raoul 
Rigaut, the latter asked: 

“ Your name and age ?” 

“My name, Sulpice Pomereul; my age, twenty-eight.” 

“ Your profession ?” 

“ That of priest.” 

“ That is to say,” sneered Rigaut, “ peddler of indul- 
gences, masses and absolutions, whose office it is to op- 
press and deceive the people.” 

“Rather to bring them to respect divine law first and 
human law afterwards,” said Sulpice. 

“ Bah ! you teach them to execrate us who represent 
the law.” 

“No,” cried Sulpice, “for you represent neither law, 
because you lack the necessary strength, nor justice, be- 
cause you have not the right.” 


THE TWO BROTHERS. 


237 


“ So you teach them to despise the Republic ?” 

“The Commune represents neither government nor 
authority, nor even the popular voice,” said Sulpice; “it 
is an emissary of disorder, bloodshed and anarchy.” 

“Do you know where such words must lead you?” 
asked Rigaut. 

“ To La Roquette, where you have imprisoned our 
archbishop,” said Sulpice. 

“And from La Roquette ?” 

“To the place of execution,” answered the Abbe Pom- 
ereul, composedly. 

“ Do you want to save your life ?” asked Rigaut. 

“ I have no right to throw it away,” said Sulpice. 

“Then fling your cassock to the dogs,” said Rigaut; 
“ take a musket and fight with the people for the sacred 
cause of liberty.” 

“The liberty I seek is not of this world,” said Sulpice; 
“do as you like with me.” 

Rigaut’s face lit up with savage joy as he gave the 
order, 

“To La Roquette with the rest.” 

Sulpice’s face never changed, and he said not a word, 
though there was a pang at his heart. He thought of 
Sabine left alone, all alone in the world. 

It was about seven o’clock. 

Through streets crowded with National Guard sol- 
diers, infantry of the Commune, and Vengeurs de Floiir- 
ensy his escort dragged him, a target for the insults of the 
crowd. Women spit upon him; his shoulders were 
bruised with blows, and some even struck him in the 
face. But he made no complaint and walked on firmly, 
with head erect, praying inwardly for his persecutors. 
They forced him to make a real Way of the Cross, for 
they stopped at every barricade and tavern, fraternizing 
with other ruffians, and drinking to the safety of the Re- 
public, till, becoming more and more intoxicated, they 


238 


IDOLS. 


grew more and more brutal to their hapless prisoner. 
He had eaten nothing since morning. His head swam 
and his limbs trembled, but he concealed every sign of 
this involuntary weakness from his captors, lest they 
should attribute it to cowardice. At length they reached 
the gloomy entrance to La Roquette. Sulpice, beholding 
its high walls, offered up his life in advance. He was 
kept in the waiting-room for an hour, and meanwhile 
the list was called to make sure of the identity of each 
prisoner. 

“ Where are they to be put V* asked the head turnkey. 

The governor shook his head. 

“ We have no place,” said he. 

However, after a w^hispered consultation with the 
head turnkey, he ordered them to be conveyed to the 
fourth division. 

“ And,” said he, “ to give this bird of ill omen an op- 
portunity of plying his craft, put him in cell No. 8. Its 
tenant is so fond of priests he will eat him up.” 

“ Always fond of your joke,” said the turnkey, smiling 
complacently at the governor. 

The under turnkey rattled his keys and bade Sulpice 
follow him. It had grown dark, there was no light in 
the halls; the keeper lit a small lamp and led Sulpice 
through long corridors, regularly divided into cells. 
Pausing at No. 8 the turnkey selected a large key from 
the bunch, and opening the door, cried out in a hoarse 
voice, 

‘‘ Comrade, here’s company for you. If you’re troubled 
with remorse you can unburden your conscience.” 

With a malicious laugh he shut Sulpice in. 

Sulpice remained just inside the cell, which was com- 
pletely dark. He could only catch a glimpse of a straw 
pallet whereon was stretched a motionless figure. The 
tenant of the cell rose as the door closed, and sitting on 


THE TWO BROTHERS. 


239 

the side of the bed, tried to distinguish the face of his 
companion in captivity. 

“From what the keeper said,” he began, “ I suppose you 
to be one of the hostages. Let me hope, sir, that you 
will have the good taste to leave me in peace during the 
time you share my apartment. Half of this couch is 
intended for you. I will readily place the whole of it at 
your disposal. I only ask to be left to my own thoughts, 
and that no one will disturb my last moments.” 

At the first sound of his voice Sulpice trembled. He 
rushed over to the pallet, seized the prisoner’s two hands, 
and in a voice of mingled joy and tenderness cried, 

“Xavier, my brother!” 

; “Sulpice!” cried the prisoner in amazement. Then 
, he added bitterly, 

! “ I understand. Your apostolic duty required that you 

i should come here and force me to hear the exhortations 
f which you must know by heart by this time. You must 
j needs have the soul of that brother whose life you have 
i sacrificed. You want to offer it as another trophy to your 
i God. But you forget that your Master abhors human 
i sacrifices, while you offer me up to a chimera of duty.” 

1' “You are mistaken,” said Sulpice, gently. “ I did not 
' force myself upon you even for the sake of your soul. I 
am a prisoner like yourself.” 

“ A prisoner ! Why what fault could you have com- 
mitted cried Xavier. 

“ The same as the archbishop, the cure of the Made- 
I leine, and all who represent religion and justice.” 

“ But you will get out of here ?” 

“Yes, to die,” said Sulpice. 

“It is horrible !” cried Xavier. 

“No; I swear to you, my brother,” said Sulpice, “I 
would meet death willingly, if only I could first reconcile 
I you with God and teach you resignation.” 


240 


IDOLS. 


“Resignation,” cried Xavier, “ when I am innocent!” 

“Of what crime have I been guilty?” asked Sulpice. 
Xavier was silent. A struggle was going on in his mind. 

While his brother was at liberty he had cherished a 
sullen hatred against him. But seeing him now a pris- 
oner, condemned to almost certain and speedy death, his 
resentment melted away. 

“Take heed of what I say, brother,” said Sulpice; “ be 
assured whatever the Lord does is well done, and I adore 
His hand in the punishment no less than in the recom- 
pense. Just now you can only see the horrors of your 
fate; death frightens you, your flesh trembles at the 
thought, you curse men and blaspheme God. Yet if for 
one moment you could understand the ways of mercy, you 
would be resigned as I am. Xavier, we have no longer 
time to look back to regret departed joys. Our eyes 
must become accustomed to the darkness of the tomb; 
our minds must learn to fathom the mysteries of eternity. 
If ever you believed that I exaggerated my duty to God, 
to you or to myself, if you accuse me of cruelty or harsh- 
ness towards you, I beseech you in this hour, when we 
are face to face with death, to believe that I could neither 
be false to God, to you nor to myself. I offered my life 
in exchange for yours, and I will bless God if He deign 
to accept it as the price of your liberty.” 

“ My liberty ?” cried Xavier. 

“Yes; a chance of liberty may be nearer than you 
think. The wretches who hinder the priest in the dis- 
charge of his duties will shortly have need of all those 
who are outlawed by society. Very soon, now, in a few 
days, I believe, they will throw open the prison doors.” 

“ For what purpose ?” 

“ That you may all be made docile instruments in the 
accomplishment of new crimes.” 

Just then the shuffling of feet and the clanking of 


THE TWO BROTHERS. 


241 


swords mingled with oaths and imprecations were heard 
in the corridor without, and the list was called of a cer- 
tain number of the condemned. 

Doors were opened and closed, there was a sound of 
footsteps descending the stairs, and all was still again. 
Xavier shuddered and Sulpice fell upon his knees. 

In a few minutes a sharp, irregular volley of musketry 
resounded in the courtyard below, two or three pistol 
shots, and a shout of Vive la Republique !” 

“Xavier,” said Sulpice, seizing his brother again by 
both hands, “martyrs have just fallen, our turn may 
soon come. I swear to you by our dead mother, by my 
vows, by my own soul, that we must prepare to die, and 
to die as Christians. Xavier, I know you would find 
it hard to lay bare your conscience to a strange priest. 
But to me, poor boy, what can you tell that I do not 
already know, and am not already prepared to excuse ? 
It is not alone the minister of God who questions you, 
but your friend, your brother, who upon the verge of 
the grave asks if you have ever known real happiness ?” 

“ No,” said Xavier, shaking his head. ^ 

“ For each imperfect joy did you not find a hundred 
vexations ? The cup of revelry contained its drops of 
gall, the sinful pleasures produced weariness and satiety. 
In vain you sought new excitement for heart and mind. 
The void remained in the heart, and the weariness in 
the spirit.” 

“ It is true,” murmured Xavier. 

“ You offered incense before every idol that the world 
adores. You sought for love, but, knowing not that beauty 
ever ancient and ever new of which St. Augustine speaks, 
you did not find even its pale reflection. You pitied me 
because I lived in poverty, fasted and crucified my flesh; 
yet, amid all these privations, my heart often leaped for 
joy, and I praised God with hymns of thanksgiving.” 


242 


IDOLS. 


‘‘Ah!” cried Xavier, clasping his hands and resting : 
them upon his knees. 

“ Oh, do you not regret having turned your mind and 
body to evil uses ?” said Sulpice. 

“Yes,” said Xavier, “but now my soul seems dead J 
within me.” , 

“ Men, judging you by your faults,” continued Sulpice, | 
“ have loaded you with shame and obloquy, and the Lord I 
has permitted it, because wealth and prosperity kept you ; 
away from Him. Now He calls you. He knows how j 
severe is your trial. He himself, though innocent, sub- | 
mitted to the false judgments of men. If you will only j 
raise supplicating hands to Him He will save you, and 
grant you for inconceivable time the happiness which the i 
world promises indeed, but is powerless to give.” 

Again there was a clamor in the hall, and Xavier could 
distinguish the words, 

“ Paris is in flames ! The buildings of the Minister of 
Finance, the Legion of Honor, and the whole of the Rue 
de Lille and the Tuileries are burning.” 

“O God 1” cried Sulpice, “have you forsaken us?” 

Innumerable voices took up the refrain. 

“The Versaillists must find Paris a heap of ashes. To ; 
work, all good patriots ! Let us put a bullet in the hos- 
tages, and set free all who will take up arms for the 
cause of the people.” 

The rattling of keys was heard and shouts of joy from I 
the prisoners. Presently a crew of thieves, murderers j 
and ruffians of every description were let loose to take 
their part in the human sacrifices, and revenge them- j 
selves upon society which had so lately condemned them. ; 
Xavier’s door, like the rest, was thrown open and a keeper ; 
offered him a musket. j 

“ Come, here’s a chance for you,” he said. “ It’s better 
to get a bullet put through you than to wait for Chariot’s 


THE TWO BROTHERS. 


243 


knife. The Versaillists have taken the half of Paris; 
they are upon our track, but we are not conquered yet. 
We will defend the Republic to the death, so here’s a 
chance for you to escape.” 

The young man sprang forward eagerly. But Sulpice 
was before him. Seizing the weapon which the man was 
offering his brother, he bent it across his knees with as- 
tonishing strength, broke it, and threw the fragments to 
a distance. 

“Why did you do that?” cried Xavier. 

“To save you,” answered the priest, calmly. 

“Miserable calotinl" cried the keeper, “not content 
with preaching lies, you want to hinder those who are 
about to take up arms for the Commune.” 

“I want to prevent Frenchmen from fighting with 
Frenchmen,” said the abbe. 

“Your fellow prisoner should take the knife to you,” 
said the keeper. “Do you think the pretty boy is a pas- 
chal lamb ? He killed his father, and you want to prevent 
him fighting the Versaillists. It’s not just.” 

Far from adding to Xavier’s desire for liberty, so 
strong a moment before, these words filled him with 
horror. 

“My boy,” said Sulpice, “if you go down into the 
street and fight behind one of those barricades, no one 
will believe in your innocence. There remains a means 
of proving it to the world: prefer death to dishonor and 
even your accusers can no longer deem you capable of 
such a crime. Your rehabilitation is in your own hands. 
Stay with me. Let us die together. Better such a death 
than a life of dishonor. Besides, you may be certain, 
Xavier, that God, who never leaves a good action unre- 
warded, will permit that if your life be not saved, at least 
your memory will be cleared of the terrible stain that 
rests upon you. In this supreme hour draw nea.r to thq 


244 


IDOLS. 


brother and the priest. I must be firm, for God is in my 
heart, and if you waver I will be here to support you. 
Stay; such a death will be martyrdom ! It will efface 
every fault, and by the baptism of blood you will be re- 
stored to your primal innocence. Stay, Xavier, for the 
expiation of past sins to purchase heaven.” 

Sulpice knelt at his brother’s feet. With streaming 
eyes and voice choked with emotion he implored him 
thus. He offered to God his future sufferings as the 
price of this soul doubly dear and doubly sacred in his 
eyes, and so ardent was his prayer, so eloquent his tears 
that Xavier’s hardened heart was softened, and kneeling 
in his turn he raised his brother’s crucifix to his lips. 
Thenceforth he heard neither musketry, nor the groans 
of the condemned, nor the shouts of the soldiers. Ab- 
sorbed in his new thoughts, occupied with the remem- 
brance of the speedy death that awaited them, he threw 
himself with one great sob into the arms of the brother 
whom he had so cruelly misunderstood. 

The night was spent by the two brothers in discussing 
their approaching death. Ever and anon keepers rush- 
ing through the passages cried out that the Rue Royale 
had been completely destroyed by fire, that the public 
granaries and the theatre at St. Martin’s Gate were in 
flames. 

“ Alas !” thought the brothers, “ our deliverers, the sol- 
diers of the army, will come too late.” 

The night passed in prayer, repentance and interchange 
of affection. 

Xavier had made the sacrifice. Becoming truly Chris- 
tian he was resigned. A portion of his brother’s sublime 
courage passed into his soul. From that time forth he 
judged his past life with rigorous severity. His awak- 
ened conscience showed him all his faults. The bitter- 
ness of his remorse might, indeed, have made him de- 


THE TWO BROTHERS. 


245 


I spair had not Sulpice, crucifix in hand, reminded him of 
I the mercy of God. That was a holy vigil of tears and 
I prayers, during which those who were soon to die forgot 
themselves in prayers for their afflicted country. 

In the morning Sulpice got paper and pen. He wrote 
a long letter to Sabine, the martyrs’ grave and tender 
farewell to that beloved sister. Having encouraged her 
I to bear this new trial bravely, he advised her to become 
Benedict Fougerais’ wife. These last thoughts given to 
i earth the priest turned entirely to God. Without the 
I tumult increased every moment. The Square de la Ro- 
I quette was filled with a howling multitude. They an- 
[ nounced the progress made by the Versaillists, cursing 
\ them the while. The brethren had taken shelter about 
I the guillotine and in cemeteries; driven from the last bar- 
I ricades they could find no other asylum than Pere la 
i Chaise. 

I The populace, which had witnessed the murder of the 
archbishop, cried out for new blood like the wild beasts 
in a menagerie. In the humiliation of their ignominious 
defeat the leaders of the Commune resolved that blood 
* should flow as long as their moment of power lasted. 

Some were killed in the last struggle, falling among the 
heaps of corpses which they had made; others assumed 
female garments, hoping in this disguise to escape in the 
general disorder that was certain to follow the taking of 
the capital by the Versaillists. Whilst one portion of 
Paris hailed the tri-colored flag as the symbol of order 
and security, the red flag of the Commune still waved 
over other parts of the city. The oppression of which 
the Communists accused their foes was practised a hun- 
dredfold by themselves. Incendiary fires and a final list 
of crimes marked the fall of a power which had only 
existed to commit murders. For the second time that 
day the turnkeys came up, accompanied by an officer 


246 


IDOLS. 


of the Commune, who read out the list of condemned 
prisoners. As they pronounced each name its owner 
advanced, saying, “ Present.” 

They were all priests or gendarmes. The one saw 
the approach of their fate with holy enthusiasm, the 
other with manly fortitude. The soldiers hurriedly 
whispered a confession of their chief faults; the priests 
gave them absolution and embraced them. Sulpice and 
Xavier appeared arm in arm. A murmur of astonish- 
ment and pity passed through the group of the con- 
demned. 

The Abbe Sulpice, pale as marble, his brow still 
marked by the red scar, seemed ripe for martyrdom. 
Many of the spectators had reason to know his gen- 
erosity and benevolence. Even among the Communists 
some few felt a sort of painful surprise at his condem- 
nation, but the greater number were filled with savage 
joy, and clapped their hands in triumph. At this mo- 
ment a breathless, panting girl rushed through the 
crowd, and threw her arms about Sulpice. It was Sa- 
bine, who, seeing that her brother did not appear, and 
aware that the arrests were still continuing, had rushed 
from prison to prison till she came to La Roquette. 
She vainly begged to see hei' brothers, and, brutally re- 
fused, had spent the night, spite of terror and fatigue, 
outside an adjoining shop. She never lost sight of the 
prison door, so that if her brothers were brought out 
she must see them once more. In the morning, she 
questioned every passer-by. They were all in expecta- 
tion of a new execution, and Sabine felt hope die in 
her breast. Only one comfort remained: to receive Sul- 
pice’s last blessing as he passed to the place of execu- 
tion. She was forced by the crowd up against the wall, 
where she awaited the appearance of the condemned. 
When the prison door grated on its hinges her heart 


THE TWO BROTHERS. 


247 


almost ceased to beat. She made a violent effort, raised 
herself on tiptoe to see, and with a cry of joy threw her- 
self into the arms of Sulpice. The Communists would 
have repulsed her brutally, but a woman interposed, and 
the hapless girl remained clasped for a moment to that 
generous and noble heart which so soon must cease to 
beat. 

“ I followed you, Sulpice, I followed you,” she cried 
frantically; “if they murder priests, surely they will 
murder Christian women. If you die I cannot live.” 

The Abbe Sulpice pressed Xavier’s hand. 

“ Yesterday,” he said, hastily, “ I said die, to-day I say, 
live. Save yourself, profit by the tumult; you cannot 
help me by staying here. Take Sabine away from this 
scene of horror.” 

The soldiers and spectators, surprised and even touched 
for an instant by Sabine’s appearance, soon discovered 
that these family affairs were interfering with the justice 
of the people. 

The word of command was given, the band of Com- 
munists began to move. Sabine, rudely snatched from 
her brother’s arms, fell upon the ground. The abbe 
bent towards Xavier. 

“Save her,” he cried, “I command you !” 

Xavier hastily seized the prostrate form, and dis- 
appeared in the crowd, while the Communists with their 
victims passed on towards the Boulevard des Aman- 
diers. 


248 


IDOLS. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Jean Machu. 

It had seized its prey at last, that ferocious beast 
called “ the people of Paris,” which during eighty years 
has made such violent efforts to become supreme master 
of France. It howled, it fairly shrieked for joy, to see 
in its power the two classes of men whose lives are spent 
in maintaining peace and good order: the priest, who 
educates children to virtue, and the gendarme^ belonging 
to that picked body of soldiers, sworn to carry out the 
law even at the expense of their lives. 

Truly, witnessing the unreasonable hatred evinqed by 
these wretches against men whose only crime was the 
defence of justice against injustice, the preservation of 
the rights of property, and even of human life, it was 
plain that their sole object was impunity to commit 
every possible misdeed, and more especially those worthy 
of capital punishment. 

■ Calm and dignified the prisoners walked among that 
furious crew. They, the soldiers of duty, who had up- 
held the honor of the French flagon many a hard-fought 
field, and won their crosses and medals by many a 
wound. Yet they were not insensible to their fate. 
Bitter anguish filled the hearts of these bronzed and 
bearded gendarmes^ at thought of their wives and chil- 
dren left unprovided for and unprotected, and whom they 
were never to see again. Besides, this was being led to 
execution like cattle to the slaughter; death would have 
had no terror for them on the field; even yet their hearts 
would have leaped for joy at the sounds of battle. But 
to die at a street corner, to be shot down at the hands 


JEAN MACHU. 


249 


of ruffians, seemed to them too terrible. They asked 
themselves what crime they had committed to merit so 
terrible a chastisement. 

“ If I were alone in the world,” said a gendarme to 
the Abbe Sulpice, “ it would be all one to me. I am a 
soldier, that means I have courage to face death. I am 
a Breton, therefore I have the faith; but my wife is ill, 
and my poor little ones are not even walking yet. Who 
will take care of the widow and the orphans? They will 
be obliged to beg, and if the news of my death should 
likewise kill the mother, public charity will have to take 
the children as beggars, pariahs. It is terrible, so terri- 
ble that I am tempted to ask, now when about to appear 
before my Judge, whether I can expect justice ?” 

“ Yes, comrade, and more than justice, for, if possible, 
mercy. seems among the divine attributes, to precede all 
others. Your death will be repaid to your children. 
You speak of justice. It will be done. We fall to-day, 
but our murderers have more to fear than we. Martyrs 
in a holy cause, we are sure of an eternity purchased by 
our death, but what have these poor wretches to expect ? 
Covered with the blood they have shed, tracked like wild 
beasts, despair in their hearts, and blasphemy on their 
lips, they will die cursing their fellow beings; or they 
who survive will dearly expiate by a life of anguish the 
murders of to-day. As to your children, be assured there 
are many noble souls who will be touched by their help- 
less state, and in the name of the Master I serve, I dare 
to promise you protection for them.” 

Whilst they spoke thus their little group had passed 
on to the Boulevard des Amandiers, through the Rue 
de Paris, and along the Boulevard des Couronnes. 

Meanwhile the drums and clarionets performed a sort 
of triumphal march, often drowned by the singing of 
the Marseillaise and the frenzied shrieks of the popu- 


250 


IDOLS. 


lace. The Communists, irritated by the calm recollec- 
tion of the doomed men, sought to disturb the peace 
of their last hours by furious words, and even blows. 
Ever and anon their progress was interrupted by an 
accession of curious people. Women, who might have 
served to personate the furies, wearing red cockades 
and flaming red sashes, heaped insults upon the priests, 
who prayed aloud. One of these miserable creatures 
seized her child, and tossing it on her shoulder, cried 
out in a coarse voice, “ See the oppressors and mur- 
derers of the people are passing by. They are going to 
be shot. When you are big, you must show your 
hatred for them as your father does.” 

The child, with its pretty, rosy face, looked with in- 
nocent amazement at the poor prisoners, and recogniz- 
ing its father among the Communists, held out its little 
arms to him. The wretch took the child and kissed it 
twice. As he did so he heard a sob just behind him, 
and turning saw the big tears rolling down the bronzed 
face of a soldier. 

“ My children, my poor children !” cried the gen- 
darme. 

“ See !” said the child, “ that poor man is crying. 
Why is he crying, papa ?” 

“ Because he is going to be shot in the name of the 
Commune !” answered the father. 

The child, not understanding, made a movement as if 
to wipe away the tears from the man’s eyes. But the 
mother, seizing the child roughly, was soon lost in the 
crowd. Meanwhile the bystanders laughed and jested 
upon the probable demeanor of the accused when they 
were really face to face with death. An old priest fell 
down. He was dragged up brutally, amid a shower of 
blows; but, accepting the arm of a soldier, he went on 
bravely, fearing to appear irresolute. 


JEAN MACHU. 


251 


The sad procession proceeded along the Rue de Paris, 
where it is crossed to the right by the Rue Haxo. The 
spot appointed for the massacre was the Cite Vincennes, 
the entrance to which was at No. 83, Rue Haxo. They 
reached this place, which was well known to malefactors 
of all sorts, by crossing a small kitchen garden, and a 
large courtyard, stretching out in front of a large de- 
tached building, dingy in appearance, where the insur- 
gents had established their headquarters. Somewhat to 
the left was a second enclosure, which before the war 
had been intended to be used as a hall for bal chant- 
petres. A basement, around which the vine-clad trellis- 
work of this despoiled pleasure-ground was to have run, 
rose breast-high before one of the walls. Between this 
wall and the basement was a sort of trench, some ten to 
eighteen feet broad. A moderately large air hole opened 
into a cellar, which occupied the centre. 

When the hostages reached the Cite Vincennes they 
expected to be shot at once. But the leaders who were 
to assist at the murder were not to be found. Or per- 
haps they simply desired to prolong the martyrs’ agony. 
One of the Communists suggested that they should be 
temporarily shut up in the cellar. This motion was 
received with general approbation. 

The insurgents hurried the condemned through a 
gloomy hall, down a noisome staircase, and into a large 
cellar, which received light and air from a vent hole 
opening on the street. They had not even a wisp of 
straw upon which they could stretch themselves while 
awaiting the supreme moment. The priests knelt down 
and began to recite the Psalms. This brought a hideous 
crowd to the air hole. Men and women thrust their 
faces against the iron bars, seeking by the most horrible 
language to distract, torment or disturb the prisoners’ 
dying moments. Their sublime fortitude awakened in 


252 


IDOLS. 


them a sort of admiration, even as it roused their hatred 
to fury. But neither taunt nor insult had power to 
trouble the ears of those who were so soon to die. 
Heaven seemed too near; they forgot the vileness of 
earth. The more their bodies suffered, the higher rose 
their souls, victorious over fear and sorrow, till they found 
their God. Among those who crowded the streets and 
rejoiced at the bloody traged)^, enjoyed in anticipation, 
were many of Methusalem’s frequenters. Not that they 
had forsaken the Rue Git-le-Coeur, but the Naine, its 
maid of all work, willing to do her share for the public 
weal, had established a canteen on the Rue Haxo. Upon 
her counter were displayed black coffee, brandy and 
other invigorating beverages, even to vitriol, and all 
suited to the various tastes of her customers. This 
monstrous being, eager to display her convictions, had 
assumed a flaring red apron, reaching from her chin 
to the shoes which covered her misshapen feet. She 
laughed, she sang, she danced, repeating phrases from 
the “Pere Duchesne,” predicting the triumph of the 
Rouge, and inciting the last defenders of the Commune 
to blow up Paris. 

“Are you afraid, boys,” she said, “or is material want- 
ing? Will you wait till those sneaks of Versaillists have 
you in their claws? You needn’t expect much mercy 
then! But it’s not ten or twenty of these dogs of calotins 
you should shoot, but crowds of them. Fire a bomb, and 
then fire another, till the last of these devil’s preachers 
are lying there to rot. What’s the use of turning 
churches into barracks if you don’t do away with God ? 
You promised you would. Down with the rich, with 
soldiers and priests! We want republicans. No time like 
the present. Roll your powder barrels into the gutter, 
put a match to them, and then for a dance. Who loves 
a dance as much as I ?” 


JEAN MACHU. 253 

“ Never tired joking, Naine,” said a man in the uni- 
form of the Vengeurs of the Commune. 

“ Oh, it’s you is it, Jean Machd ?” said the Naine; what 
will you take ?” 

“ Something strong, as strong as you have it,” said he. 

The Naine poured him out a tumbler of brandy. 

‘‘ To your health, Naine,” said he; “ but come, keep me 
company.” 

“ Your treat ?” asked she. 

‘‘To be sure,” said Machu; “you sell your wares, but 
you don’t consume them.” 

The Naine filled a second glass, clinking it against 
that of the felon. 

“To your speedy marriage, Naine,” said Machu. 

The Naine laid down the glass. 

“It’s no jesting matter, Jean,” said she; “there’s none 
would have Methusalem’s servant.” 

“ You think so ?” 

“ I’m sure of it.” 

“ You’re not so sure, though, but there’s one you’d like 
to have,” said Machu, grinning. 

A flush passed over the hideous face. 

“What put that into your head ?” said she. 

“ Oh,” said the Commander of the Vengeurs of the 
Commune, “ never you mind; but I met one the other 
day that you’re very fond of.” 

“ Methusalem ?” 

“ No, you are his servant, but you’re not in love with 
him for all that.” 

“ Well, who do you mean ?” 

“ Fleur d’Echafaud !” 

“You saw hiniT she cried, bending over the counter 
eagerly. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Where t 


254 


IDOLS. 


“At the prefecture. He’s in the Vengeurs^ 

“ Oh, if the Versaillists catch him,” she cried. 

“ He will scarcely have time to marry you, Naine!” 

“It’s no joking matter,” she said almost fiercely; “if 
they take him they’ll kill him.” 

“ The very notion that he’s in danger makes you show 
your teeth and claws,” said Machu, laughing. “ I told 
)"Ou so.” 

“And you’re a fool for your pains,” said she, sullenly. 
“ I don’t want him to be taken, it’s true. But I am the 
only one, do you hear, Jean Machu, the only one that 
knows why his life’s precious to me.” 

“You ought to have more confidence in your friends,” 
said Machu, still jesting. 

“ Do you know where he is now ?” she said, quickly. 

“ How can we know from day to day what becomes of 
people ?” said he. “ The gun does its work quickly. You 
and I, Naine, may be dead to-morrow.” 

“ Once I’ve seen the end of those gibbering fools that 
are braying their litanies in the cellar,” said she, “ I’ll 
just be off to Methusalem’s. If Fleur d’Echafaud wants 
a hiding-place send him to me. I know one. You are 
welcome to it, too, Rat-de-Cave.” 

“That’s not my stamp, Naine,” said Rat-de-Cave, with 
sudden gravity. “ I’ll never hide. I’ll be behind the last 
barricades with the last Vengeurs of the Commune, and 
I swear the Versaillists’ll nev-er get me alive. I’ll defend 
my skin all I can; but once the game’s up. I’ll make an 
end of myself.” 

Just then there was a stir in the crowd to make way 
for a young man in a dazzling uniform glittering with 
gold lace. He belonged to Bergeret’s Enfants Perdus. 
Jean Machu looked round to see what was going on, 
and the Naine mounted among the bottles and glasses 
on her counter. Her eyes hastily scanned the crowd, 


JEAN MACHU. 255 

and all at once lit up with a sort of fierce exultation as 
she muttered, 

“Fleur d’Echafaud.” 

Hastily descending, she resumed her place at the 
counter. 

Jean Machu meanwhile advanced to shake hands with 
the new-comer. 

“Well, Marc Mauduit,” said he, “what’s going on 
down yonder ?“ 

“The Versaillists are taking barricade after barri- 
cade,” said Mauduit; “ our soldiers are being defeated at 
every point.” 

“ Did you come here to fight ?” 

“ I came to look about me,” said Mauduit, “ and to 
make sure of some hiding-place.” 

“You came to the right spot this time,” said Machu. 
“Some one was speaking of you just now.” 

“ Who’s that ?” 

“ The Naine. She knows a hiding-place.” 

“That will be good for to-morrow,” said Fleur 
d’Echafaud. 

“ I think you might have the grace to thank her,” 
said Machu. 

So the brilliant young man approached the counter, 
and accepted a cup of coffee from the Naine. 

“ To-morrow,” said he, “ I shall need you.” 

“ Ah !” said she, “you will need—” 

“Any disguise you like and a. safe shelter.” 

“ The disguise will be ready in an hour, and the hiding- 
place— Git-le-Coeur.” 

“But Methusalem might betray me?” 

“ He would if he dared,” said she, “ but he dares 
not.” 

“Who will prevent him ?” 

“ I will.” 


256 


IDOLS. 


•‘You!” said Fleur d’Echafaud, laughing heartily. 

“ Yes, I,” said the Naine. “ Because I watched over you 
like a mother you think me only capable of love, and 
that I could not hate. You are wrong, boy, you are 
wrong. My hatred is terrible. I brood and brood over 
it till it bursts out.” 

“ It’s so very droll,” said Fleur d’Echafaud, laughing 
still more immoderately. 

“ Droll !” cried she; “ you think my hatred a thing to 
laugh at.” 

“ Yes,” said he, “because everything about you is 
ridiculous, my poor Fantoche. You are not a woman and 
cannot have a woman’s feelings. Nature made you a 
monster, and a monster you will always be.” 

She fixed such a glance on him as would have terrified 
any one else. 

“ Well,” said she, slowly, “ never incur the hatred of 
Fantoche, for you would find it terrible.” 

A solemn, mournful sound just then reached their 
ears. It was the prisoners singing the Miserere. This 
cry for mercy, coming as it did from the bowels of the 
earth, in the voices of men hourly awaiting execution, 
had so peculiar a grandeur that the bloodthirsty, 
drunken populace involuntarily shuddered. Surely the 
victims were stronger than their persecutors. A Com- 
munist soldier seized his gun, pointed the barrel of it 
through the bars, and fired into the cellar, saying, 

“That will make them shut up.” 

A groan was heard; one of the condemned had fallen. 
But this cowardly act only seemed to revive their 
courage, and the last versicles of the psalm arose more 
solemn and imploring than ever. It was literally out of 
the depths, that cry unto the Lord of “ Miserere ! Mis- 
erere 1” 

As day waned the crowd instead of diminishing grew 


JEAN MACHO. 


257 


greater. The combatants of the barricades and fugitives 
of all sorts flocked thither, where there were still arms to 
load, houses to burn, crimes to commit. Many of them, 
tracked from street to street, and from house to house, 
asked only a corner of ground where they could die, cry- 
ing “Vive la Commune !” The intoxication of anger or 
strong drink lent courage to the one half, while the 
other trembled at the fate which awaited them. The first 
paraded such of their quarters as were threatened but 
not yet invaded, while the second hastily cut their hair 
or beard, assumed various disguises, tore the red stripe 
from their trousers, and broke the arms which would 
have doubly compromised them, first because they were 
stolen, second because they were stained with blood. 

When it was night the Naine carried her table, bottles 
and her stove into an empty shop close by, and with- 
out even thinking of sleep, continued dealing out her 
wares, and seasoning her sales with the sinister language 
of the knitting-women of the Commune. The spacious 
apartment was soon filled with the birds of ill omen who 
prowl about at night, thieves by profession, young men 
more carefully dressed, the pillars of smoking-rooms and 
public balls, half-drunken Communist soldiers, hiccough- 
ing out mutual exhortations to die for the Commune, and 
borrowing from each other in the name of sacred equality. 

The distant growling of the cannon was as an undertone 
to all this. In proportion as its sound drew nearer, they 
knew that the regular army was gaining Paris inch 
by inch. At length, spite of anger, hatred and fear, 
sleep overcame some of the motley gathering in the 
Naine’s shop. She herself nodded over the counter, 
whilst Fleur d’Echafaud and Rat-de-Cave spoke to- 
gether of their near future. 

“ Ah, well,” said Fleur d’Echafaud, “ I have had 
enough of the Commune and the rights of the people. 


258 


IDOLS. 


It’s all very fine, but dangerous. It sounds well at the 
club or in the newspapers to advance such ideas, bi’t to 
sustain them with helmet on head and revolver in hand 
is another thing. I have v^nly twenty-four hours more to 
wear my uniform, so covered with gold lace that it took 
half the money from the Pomereul safe to pay for it. 
Once to-morrow’s drama is played I wfill make tracks, 
and turn up again after some time as Marc Mauduit, the 
model secretary. What about you ?” 

“ My way is different,” said Rat-de-Cave, brusquely. 
“ Cannons have been put in Pere la Chaise. I’ll serve 
the last of them.” 

“ Why not try to save yourself ?” asked Mauduit. 

“What use ? What would I do afterwards ?” said the 
felon. 

“ What you have always done,” said Mauduit. 

“ Steal and murder ?” said Machii. ^ 

“ I don’t think you are destined for an embassy, it’s 
true,” said Mauduit, sneeringly. 

“To steal, to kill,” said Jean Machu, gloomily. 
“Always the same thing; besides, they leave thoughts 
sometimes that are like — ” 

“What can your thoughts be like ?” said Fleur d’Echa- 
faud. 

“ Remorse,” said Jean Machu, in a hollow voice. 

“You know remorse ? You ?” cried Mauduit. 

“ Call it what you like,” said Machu. “ I know what it 
is to pass sleepless nights, and always to see the face of 
a man accusing you. I know what it is to say, ‘ The air 
I breathe is stolen, my liberty is stolen, and another is 
paying the debt I owe to Justice.’ ” 

“Amen !” said Fleur d’Echafaud. 

He leaned both hands upon the table, as if weary of 
tne subject, and buried his face. But the Naine, in her 
sleep, uttered a name; 


JEAN MACHU. 


259 


“ Louise, my dear Louise.” 

Her sleep seemed troubled. Again she spoke: 

“ You shall be avenged, Louise; you shall be avenged !” 

Fleur d’Echafaud raised his head and looked at her. 
She was hideous; there was foam about her lips, her 
nostrils were dilating, her brow furrowed with wrinkles. 
Fleur d’Echafaud almost fancied that she pronounced 
the name of Andre Nicois, but he thought himself mis- 
taken. What link could exist between the rich banker 
and the deformed creature, who had begun by being the 
attraction of country fairs, and now served the kitchen 
of Methusalem ? 

Night passed. At dawn the voices of the priests, some- 
what more feeble, were heard again. All night long 
they had prayed the prayers for the dying. Priests and 
gendarmes alike, awaiting the carrying out of their 
terrible sentence, were of one mind and one heart. 
They had but one hope. The condemned soldiers knelt 
before the priests, who, exercising their divine ministry, 
prepared them more and more for death. The hostages 
had been left entirely without food, and hunger was 
added to their other torments. Morning brought again 
to the air hole those who impatiently awaited the hour 
of the sacrifice. They felt that the progress of the army 
gave them scarcely time for this last crime, and that 
they had need of haste. However, whether because of 
the anxiety caused by the resolute advance of the Ver- 
saillists who were taking Paris, street by street, house by 
house, or from some other cause, the fatal order was 
delayed. 

Nearly another day passed in suspense. 

At last a young man wearing the red scarf of a 
delegate of the Commune came to the headquarters at 
the Cite Vincennes, with instructions for detachments of 
Communists belonging to a battalion of the Eleventh 


26 o 


IDOLS. 


District, and a battalion of the Fifth District. Imme- 
diately after some of Bergeret’s Enfants Perd,us went 
down into the cellar, and ordered the prisoners to come 
up. They obeyed without thought of resistance. Faith 
shed its ineffable calm over them, and the priests gave a 
final benediction to the soldiers, who walked to death as 
firmly as to battle. 

At sight of the prisoners cheers of savage joy were 
heard, and the soldiers could scarcely keep back the 
crowd. Not that they cared to protect the victims, but 
they feared lest in the tumult some should escape. The 
enclosure whither they were hurried was already occupied 
by the staff of different battalions. The fifty hostages and 
their executioners filled what was left of that narrow space. 
A portion of the crowd found it impossible to assist at 
this last act of barbarity. The hostages were placed 
against the wall, and a squad of soldiers, with loaded 
muskets, stood ready to fire on the word of command. 

Sulpice embraced his brother priests, exchanging with 
them what was indeed the kiss of peace of the primitive 
Church, which at the conclusion of the love-feasts was 
given those about to die. 

Just as the Abbe Pomereul turned from the embrace 
of an old priest who had clasped him in his arms, two 
men covered with gold lace and bearing swords pushed 
their way resolutely through the crowd to obtain a 
position in the front rank of spectators. 

“The Commandant Machu and Colonel Marc Mau- 
duit,” whispered the crowd, making way for them 
respectfully. 

Scarcely had Machfi come face to face with those who 
were about to be shot, and scanned their faces with a 
rapid glance, when he sprang forward with the agility of 
a tiger, and covered one of them with his own body. 

The soldiers who had just raised their muskets paused, 


JEAN MACHU. 


261 


and the officer in command advancing to Machu, who 
was interrupting the justice of the people in a manner so 
extraordinary, said, 

“ Commandant, the moment of execution is come.*' 

The Abbe Sulpice’s defender turning quickly faced 
the crowd, saying to the officers and soldiers who drew 
near with irrepressible curiosity, 

“I must have this man’s life. I must have it !” 

“You must have a fearful score to settle with him. 
Commandant,” said a soldier, “if the justice of the 
people won’t answer you.” 

Sulpice in amazement recognized the man who had 
come between him and death. 

“Jean Machu!” he cried, involuntarily. 

“Yes; I want his life,” pursued Jean Machu, the felon. 

“You want to let a priest, a deceiver of the people, 
escape from justice? Never!” cried the crowd. 

“He saved me,” said Jean Machu, hoarsely. “I’ll not 
be in his debt.” 

“Shoot the caloUnT cried a child. 

Fleur d’Echafaud whispered in his comrade’s ear, 

“Are you mad ? Once he dies we’re safe.” 

“ Death to him ! death to him !” cried the crowd. 

“Comrades,” said Machu, “you know me. I showed 
my patriotism well. I set fire to the Finance buildings, 
when the telegram came from Ferre. I was there when 
we shot the archbishop. I’ve been all the week from 
one barricade to another The friends of the people 
Delescluze and Milliere, were my friends. I’m ready to 
fire the last gun with you, but for my services I want 
this man’s life.” 

“ So that he can sell you later on, and get you shot by 
the Versaillists. ” 

“ If he promises not' to betray me,” said Machu, “ he’ll 
keep his promise..” 


262 


IDOLS. 


“ He, a Jesuit, a calotin /” 

“You don’t know what his word’s worth,” said Machii. 
“ I am a Communist, and a ruffian, and a robber besides.” 

“ You flatter yourself. Commandant,” said a voice. 

“I pillaged Notre Dame de Lorette,” pursued he. “ I 
helped to put a blaze to the old cathedral. I have 
robbed God and men. This priest knew all about it, and 
he never said a word.” 

“He was afraid of revenge,” said some one in the 
crowd. 

“ Not he,” said Machu. “ You see he does not tremble 
even now before you.” 

There were cries of “ Back, Commandant !” “ Clear 

the way !” “ Machu is a traitor !” 

“ Machu’s not afraid of any of you,” said the Com- 
mandant of the Vengeurs of the Commune. “ The first 
who makes a step forward is a dead man.” 

The felon cocked his pistol and waited. No one stirred. 

“His life,” said Machu. “Will you give me his life ?” 

“Never!” cried they. 

“Well, I’ll tell you the whole story,” said Machfl. 
“Just now it doesn’t much matter having one or two 
things more or less on our conscience. We may all be 
dead to-morrow. I not only committed crimes for the 
general good, but I robbed this man’s father. I took a 
hundred thousand francs out of his safe.” 

“ Bravo I” cried several voices. 

“ He knew it, and never let up on me.” 

A murmur passed through the crowd as Jean Machu 
continued, still screening Sulpice with his own body: 

“I killed his father, and he didn’t give me up.” 

A murmur of incredulity was now heard in the various 
groups. 

“No,” said Machu; “he didn’t give me up, because the 
secret of confession sealed his lips. You cry out against 


JEAN MACHU. 


263 

priests, but I respect them. Tve done many a bad deed 
in my day, but I want to save this man to show my 
gratitude. You must either kill both of us or neither. 
Once he’s in safety I’ll come back to die with you.” 

The Abbe Sulpice tried to detach himself from the 
felon’s grasp. 

“ Leave me to die,” he said; “ martyrdom is the noblest 
death for which I can ever hope. God in His mercy 
will take account of the efforts you have made to save 
me. Do not force me to desert my brethren. You have 
spoken some dangerous words, but they will be forgotten 
if you leave me to the hatred of my enemies.” 

“ No,” said Machfi; “ if they’re obstinate about it we’ll 
die together. But they daren’t fire.” 

As if to contradict this assertion the officer cried out, 
“ Present arms !” 

Once more Sulpice tried to escape from his deliverer 
and rejoin his friends. 

The soldiers of the Eleventh battalion made a rush for- 
ward, like a tumultuous wave flowing in on the strand. 

Machu felt his coat pulled; he looked down: it was 
the Naine. She made a mysterious sign to him, and 
held out a plain dark cloak, and as she, with a group of 
furious women eager to see the last act in the bloody 
drama, pushed into the front row, Machu wrapped the 
abbe in the cloak and drew him aside, whispering hastily, 

“Think of your sister.” 

These words went to his heart, and Machu, profiting by 
his momentary irresolution, and aided by the diversion 
which the Naine had purposely created, dragged Sulpice 
into the old cemetery, thence into a squalid-looking 
house and up the stairs. They had just reached the top, 
when a discharge of musketry proved that the people of 
Paris had committed the most iniquitous act of their 
reign. 


264 


♦ IDOLS. 


Though sheltered in the house, the priest and Jean 
Machu v/ere by no means in safety. Going into an 
empty room they found some workmen’s clothes hang- 
ing on the wall. The felon seized them, throwing them 
to the priest, and crying. 

Quick, quick ! these brutes will follow us.” 

At the same time he took a handful of gold from his 
pocket and threw it down, adding, 

^‘That’s for the owner of the clothes.” 

Sulpice at length decided to accept the safety which 
Providence seemed to impose on him. He hastily 
donned the blue blouse and overalls, and putting a 
cap on his head, was so completely disguised that no one 
could have recognized him. 

“ Come,” said Machu. 

They went down cautiously. The house had two 
exits. With the keen scent of a thief, and the agility of a 
burglar, Machu opened a door, climbed a little wall, and 
assisted the Abbe Pomereul to do the same. 

All this had been accomplished so quickly that the 
savage crew without had scarcely yet discovered what 
had transpired. They were still gloating over the writh- 
ing forms of their victims. 

Meanwhile the Abbe Sulpice and Machu had reached 
a deserted part of Paris, where the Commune no longer 
had sway. 

“ Go,” said the Vengeur of the Commune. “ The Ver- 
saillists are there to protect you. After this you can 
think of me without cursing me.” 

“Ah !” said the abbe, “if you would only come with 
me and amend your life.” 

“ It’s too late,” said Machu. “ I’m going to play the 
last act.” 

With a sort of despairing energy he wrung the merci- 
ful hand held out to him, and ran off. 


THE BARRICADES OF DEATH. 


265 


CHAPTER XVII. 

The Barricades of Death. 

The bloody tragedy was ended. 

The bodies of the priests and gendarmes were thrown 
into a trench, and the populace, intoxicated with blood, 
rushed from the fatal spot, thronging the Rue Haxo, 
Rue de Paris, and the Boulevard des Amandiers. 

Jean Machu’s daring act would no doubt have drawn 
upon him the accusation of treason and the swift ven- 
geance of the multitude had he not, immediately on 
returning to the Communists, begun with indomitable 
energy and lightning-like resolve to sketch out the plan 
of action for the final struggle. Their base of operations 
became more limited as the liberation of Paris was grad- 
ually being accomplished. They could no longer con- 
struct barricades by tearing up the pavement; on the 
contrary, they had to find barricades ready made, and a 
space sufficient to contain the proper number of com- 
batants, disposed in such fashion as to maintain a des- 
perate struggle. The streets were being swept by the 
cannon, cleared by charges of cavalry, and carried by 
the infantry. The Communists were looking around 
helplessly for a position in which to intrench themselves, 
when Jean Machu reappeared in their midst. 

A hoarse murmur of reproach was heard at sight of 
him. 

“ I know what you have to say,” he cried. ‘‘ I saved a 
priest. But it was my own affair, and the first one who 
accuses me of treason to the Commune I’ll blow out his 
brains with my revolver. If any of you like the pros- 
pect, step out.” 


266 


IDOLS. 


Machu’s resolute air awed the most daring, and the 
felon continued, 

“You’re disheartened; the more shame for you! You 
hear the guns and know that your turn’s coming. For 
people like us the trial will be short; they’ll thrust us 
against a wall and bang. Serve us right, too; but there 
are some of us prefer another sort of thing. Death is 
death. But it’s better to defend ourselves, and give ball 
for ball, stroke for stroke. We are conquered, but let 
us die as good patriots and true Communists. We 
must fight; not in order of battle, for that would end 
too quick, but like poachers in the woods, or sharp- 
shooters in the hedges, and the scene of our last combat 
I have chosen. Will you follow me there ?” 

“Yes, yes !” cried a hundred voices. 

“ To Pere la Chaise, boys. The tombstones will do 
us for barricades.’’ 

“To Pere la Chaise,’’ repeated the crowd like an 
echo. 

Machu’s idea was hailed as the inspiration of genius. 
In an hour’s time a band of Communists, one and all re- 
solved to meet death stoically, had possession of the 
cemetery; the last guns of the Commune were set up 
there, and preparations made to defend this last strong- 
hold of the rebels unto death. After the many sacrileges 
they had committed, the Communists consummated a 
final one in bringing their fratricidal struggle to the city 
of death. The scene was more terrible than any that 
had preceded it. The soldiers soon carried the place by 
assault, and the melee became general. It was rather a 
massacre than a battle. The Communists, expecting no 
quarter, fought furiously, and the soldiers, exasperated by 
their losses, enraged at having to fight against such ruf- 
fians, marked their advance by the heaps of dead strewn 
among the tombs. Every chapel was a fortress. The 


THE BARRICADES OF DEATH. 


267 

bullets flew fast and furious through the windows. When 
guns were broken the revolvers were used and daggers 
drawn. The biood-stained ground was slippery to the 
feet of victor and vanquished alike. Some of the 
wretches at length gave themselves up, but others put 
pistols to their heads to escape being made prisoners. 
A band of Communists, hard pressed, surrounded, and 
unable longer to defend themselves, surrendered; the 
terror of immediate death seemed worse than the more 
remote punishment of their crimes. Ammunition failed, 
the cannon were silent, and those who served them 
had fallen dead among the empty powder casks. A 
single group remained, consisting of some twenty men, 
headed by Jean Machu. As long as he had a cart- 
ridge he fired; when he had no more he seized his 
revolver by the barrel and used it as a club. A soldier 
snatched it from him, but Machu, picking up a knife 
from the ground, rushed upon his assailant. He hoped 
to gain at least this one last victory; struck by a ball in 
the right arm, he still fought with his left, but a blow 
from the butt end of a musket took him in the chest, 
blood gushed from his mouth, his teeth were already 
broken, and he fell upon a heap of dead, wherein sol- 
diers and Communists were indiscriminately mingled. 
Four of his companions took to flight, vainly hoping to 
escape; others opened their coats and rushed forward to 
meet the balls. A volley of artillery swept the last of 
them away. In a few minutes all was still in the ceme- 
tery; the prisoners, with scowls of hatred and defiance 
on their faces, and blasphemies on their lips, were led 
away by the soldiers. Somewhat later litters were 
brought for the wounded. 

It was dark night when Jean Machu recovered con- 
sciousness. Bruised in every limb, a sabre gash upon 
his forehead and his chest crushed in by the last blow. 


268 


IDOLS. 


the poor wretch felt that death was inevitable. Nor did 
he dread it, for he knew that life could give him 
nothing more, and abhorrence of the past arose now pre- 
dominant over every other sentiment. To his enfeebled 
mind came the recollections of his past life like visions. 
He would fain have shut them out from his sight and 
closed his ears against them. But no, he was doomed to 
hear and see, and this illusion of the senses, arising from 
the fever of his wounds, occasioned him mental suffer- 
ing much more terrible than all his physical pain. 

He was a child again, sporting in a great mossy wood 
thickly peopled with birds, which his mother tamed. 
His mother! he saw her^ too, a pretty peasant woman, 
active and industrious, who, in the midst of her own pov- 
erty, had always a kind word for the afflicted and a crust 
of bread for beggars. His father was a wood-cutter of 
the forest, a rude trade, but one which had many com- 
pensations. It was good to see how Michel Machu threw 
by his axe at noonday, when his young wife brought 
him his meal, sitting on the trunk of a tree and opening 
her basket, wherein were hot soup, tempting meat, ripe 
fruits and wine. Together they took their repast, while 
the child sported under the trees and sang with the 
oriole. The father, seizing the child, tossed him in the 
air, or sought birds’ nests for him, or caught him a live 
squirrel. When the mother was not too busy in the 
house she brought her sewing out of doors, while the 
husband worked and the child laughed for glee. At 
nightfall they all went home under the waving branches; 
the tiell on the village church rang out the Angelus, the 
father raised his hat, the mother blessed herself, and the 
child grew grave seeing the gravity of his elders. Yes, 
those were halcyon days in the shadow of the woods, 
when the wood-cutter earned their bread with his axe. 
Suddenly the scene changed. One day the mother and 


THE BARRICADES OF DEATH. 


269 

child were in their little house, the former singing one of 
the ballads of the country over her washtub. All at 
once two neighbors came rushing in, with pale faces and 
eyes red with tears. They took the woman’s hand, say- 
ing, 

“ Poor Mathurine ! Poor Mathurine !” 

“ Something has happened to Michel,” she said, in- 
stinctively. 

“Yes, something terrible,” they answered. 

One of the women then took Jean in her arms, mur- 
muring, “ Poor orphan.” 

“ My man is dead ?” cried Mathurine, dazed and 
bewildered. 

“Almost. You will scarcely have time for a last 
word,” said the neighbors. 

“ Where is he ?” cried Mathurine, “ where is he ?” 

“They are bringing him home,” said one of the 
women, throwing the door open as she spoke. Four 
men entered; they carried a stretcher; upon it was a 
motionless figure covered with a blood-stained cloth. A 
tree which he had been felling killed him in its fall. 

Mathurine threw herself upon her husband, strained 
him to her heart, and vainly sought one word, one look, 
one sigh. He seemed already dead. They laid him on 
the bed and presently he opened his eyes. Seeing the 
terrible woe on Mathurine’s face, and the tears in her 
eyes, he closed his own again, as if too weak to bear the 
sight of her sorrow. At length he made an effort to 
speak some parting words to those dear ones whom he 
was about to leave. He beckoned his wife to draw nearer 
to him, saying, 

“Do not weep. I am dying. You have been a faithful, 
kind and gentle wife. You made my life easy and helped 
me to bear its troubles. I was too happy, Mathurine; I 
must leave it and you.” He kissed his wife, drew her to 


270 


IDOLS. 


his breast for an instant, then took Jean, whom his wife 
held up to him. He pressed him close to his heart, 
saying, 

“You will never see me again, little Jean. Would 
that I might have lived to see you grow up, to teach you 
to be honest and industrious, as your mother will teach 
you to be pious. God does not will it, and I must be re- 
signed. Remember my last words, Jean. Be a good 
son and an honest man.” 

Just then the cure of the neighboring village came in. ‘ 
Michel’s face brightened. He was a simple and devout 
Christian, who had led a life as pure as the dawn which 
he saw every morning rising above his head. His con- 
fession was not long, and he died in peace and hope. 

Here there was a gap in Machu’s memories. He re- 
membered his mother in a black dress crying over him; 
crying for her good husband, and for the future of her 
child. Jean still loved the woods; but he did not work 
in open day like his father. He haunted them at night 
like the wolves. He had forgotten his father’s dying 
exhortation, and was deaf to the advice of his mother, . 
who was almost heartbroken. A hard, fierce, rebellious . 
nature was his; he laughed alike at the dying words of 
the one and the tears of the other. In vain did Mathu- 
rine, when all else failed, strive to terrify him by threats 
and predictions of evil. He laughed at gendarmes^ as 
he did at saints and angels, and continued his evil way : 
of life. Hidden in the brushwood, he waited for the 
game, laid snares, spread nets, and even if occasion 
demanded, shot goats. The gamekeeper, a worthy 
man, warned Mathurine repeatedly that he would have' 
to bring action against Jean for trespass, poaching and ; 
dishonesty. The mother could do nothing with her son. | 
She could only weep and pray. One night she heard ] 
the sound of footsteps and the clanking of sabres in the ] 


THE BARRICADES OE DEATH. 


271 


wood without. A loud knock came to the door of the 
hut, and the poor widow saw Jean, her idolized Jean, 
with handcuffs on his wrists and a scowl of defiance on 
his face. Caught in the act of poaching, he had resisted 
the gendarmes^ and wounded one of them in the hand 
with his knife. 

“ Mercy, mercy, good gentlemen!” cried the mother, 
falling on her knees. 

“Mathu/ine,” said the gendarme^ “if I were 

alone concerned I would release this vagabond, but I 
have my duty to do, and he must come with us. I have 
brought him to say good by to you, because you are an 
honest woman, and Michel Machu left a good name in 
the neighborhood.” 

“Oh, where are you taking him?” asked Mathurine. 

^ “ To prison,” answered he. 

“My child in prison!” she wailed out. 

“You must own he deserves it,” said the man, “spite 
of all your goodness to him.” 

“ How long will they keep him?” she asked. 

“That,” said the officer, “is the judge’s affair, not 
mine, but I think they will put him in the House of 
Correction.” 

“Jean,” said the hapless mother, sinking into a chair, 
“you have killed me.” 

When Mathurine recovered consciousness the whole 
terrible vision had passed away, but in her ears still 
sounded the clanking of sabres and of the handcuffs 
upon Jean’s hands. 

How well Jean remembered that night, the first step 
in the path of crime, sentence, punishment which he had 
ever since pursued. Precocious criminal of fifteen as 
he was, he did not reflect that the law gave him every 
chance of becoming an honest man. He never dreamed 
of repairing the faults of his youth by sincere repent- 


2/2 


IDOLS. 


ance. On the contrary, he vowed vengeance against 
society, which he had so early outraged, and began a 
deadly struggle against its laws. Time passed slowly in 
the House of Correction. One day some one came and 
told him his mother was dead. Bad as he was the 
blow was a heavy one. He felt it to the core of his 
heart. But his companions soon dispelled whatever 
salutary impression it might have made on him. They 
stirred him up by so many anecdotes of tricks played 
upon the authorities, and plans for the future, that he 
began to long for the hour of his liberation. It came, 
and he was free. He had a little money in his pocket. 
He knew a trade, and might have earned an honest 
living; but he preferred idleness to work, and at any 
rate resolved to spend his money first. He met some 
companions. They brought him to wretched lodgings, 
and introduced him to some of the lowest dens in Paris. 
In a week’s time his vague idea of going to work had 
vanished. He resolved to live without employment and 
exercise vagrancy as his only trade. He did not dis- 
dain to open carriages, pick up the butt ends of cigars, 
sell letter paper, or tapers for smokers, but whoever 
penetrated the garret where he lived would have been 
amazed at the curious collection of articles it contained 
—hams, new pairs of shoes, pieces of stuffs, balls of 
wool, ready-made garments, boxes of blacking, all ly- 
ing in the most picturesque disorder, till Methusalem, 
the broker of the Rue Git-le-Coeur, came to bring 
order out of chaos, and to carry the whole lot off in ex- 
change for some pieces of money. 

One night Machu and a companion had been on a 
drinking bout. When they were about returning home, 
the weather being rainy, and their strength unequal 
to crawling along by the wall, they hailed a coachman, 
and gave him an address which made him toss his head. 


THE BARRICADES OF DEATH. 


273 


Coming to a suspicious-looking house, they called out 
to him to stop, and alighting, began as it were to fum- 
ble in their pockets for his fare. Of course they had 
nothing. Jean Machu jogged his companion’s elbow, 
and the driver having got down to open the door and 
receive the money, Machu by a rapid movement gagged 
him, while his comrade stunned him with a blow upon 
the chest, took his purse from his pocket, pushed Machu 
into the carriage, got upon the box and whipped up the 
horses. Next day the confederates made good cheer 
with the horses and the money. But shortly after the 
police, making a descent upon a notorious haunt, 
took Jean Machu. It was a more serious matter this 
time. A trial in a criminal court, the chain and ball, 
the departure with the chain-gang, and the galleys. 
Thenceforth Machu had only one thought, that of 
escape. And he accomplished his design by a series of 
adventures more extraordinary than half the wondrous 
I tales that beguile the tediousness of the mess or guard- 
[ room. Having climbed a wall by means of his knife, 
he hung suspended over an abyss by a frail cord. Pur- 
sued by the keepers, and driven ashore by a furious 
j storm, he rushed panting and exhausted into a hut, to 
which he was admitted by a young man of angelic 
countenance. 

“The Abbe Sulpice, the Abbe Sulpice,” muttered the 
wounded wretch. 

Oh, how the circumstances of that night forced them- 
selves upon his memory. How carefully the priest had 
warmed his stiffened limbs; with what more than 
brotherly love he had supplied him with all things 
necessary for his escape. More than this, in that little 
hut, at the door of which the gendarmes might any 
moment knock demanding the convict, the priest had 
spoken of hope, repentance, an honorable life to the felon, 


274 


IDOLS. 


the outlaw of society. Nor had he stopped there. A 
letter of recommendation gave Jean Machu a chance to 
lead an honest life. His future might yet have been 
happy. A new name, an honest trade, would forever 
have disguised the escaped galley-slave of Brest, so that 
henceforth he would be unrecognizable. Touched and 
subdued by the priest’s words and manner, Jean Machu 
had promised, and even made an effort to keep his word. 
He had gone to the manufactory, the proprietor of 
which had received him on the recommendation of the 
priest. But a robber whom he met, and whom he had 
known in other times, recognized him, deprived him of 
his savings, and threatened to denounce him, if he did 
not supply all his wants. In despair Jean Machu fled 
from the place, lest his real name might become known. 
Still weak from his wounds he remained irresolute, and 
at the close of day sat on the edge of a ditch by the 
roadside, asking himself what he was to do. Better 
throw himself at once into the furnace, and go to Paris. 
Once there his first visit was to Methusalem. 

The latter received him with the honor due to a man 
who had escaped the galleys, and brought him into con- 
tact with some of the most rioted thieves. Thenceforth 
his crimes changed, not in their nature, but in the man- 
ner of perpetration. Mere murders seemed very paltry 
enterprises, and the stage-coach having been rendered ob- 
solete by the railroad, there was nothing to be done 
in that line, and so they sought some new path to re- 
nown. Theft arose to the dignity of a profession, a 
society regularly commanded. Its members were care- 
fully organized, recrujted from every portion of the city; 
they despised no auxiliary, and sometimes burst in with 
the news that they had just gained at one haul a band, 
lieutenants and captain, all ready to obey that scrupu- 
lously respected hierarchy. 


THE BARRICADES OF DEATH. 


275 


Jean Machu was enrolled in a company composed of the 
most heterogeneous elements. He had under his orders 
classical scholars, clerks of government ministers, who, 
beginning by stealing paper and pens from the desk, had 
reached to this refinement of villainy. Machu had first 
met Fleur d’Echafaud at Methu.salem’s table, for the 
Pension Bourgeoise was the resort of all who were in- 
volved in dangerous enterprises. It was Marc Mauduit 
who had planned the Pomereul robbery, on account of 
the perfect facilities afforded him for knowing the house 
by his office of secretary. 

Ah, what a night that was ! The scenes of his double 
crime came before his wandering mind like the various 
acts of a drama. They go in, Fleur d’Echafaud and 
himself. The door of the safe is open, displaying piles 
of banknotes. While they are busy emptying it a man 
comes in. He must be killed. In a moment Jean Machu’s 
fingers are on the old man’s throat, a brute, a senseless 
being, interferes; he falls, stricken by Fleur d’Echa- 
faud’s dagger. The murderers fly in haste, leaving the 
murdered man, already rigid in death, and the chim- 
panzee writhing in agony. As they go down the stairs 
a noise is heard, some one enters and comes up towards 
them. ’Tis the Abbe Sulpice. 

The name seemed to bring back consciousness. He 
found himself alone in that vast cemetery, transformed 
into a general grave, and the paths of which were strewn 
with dead. He had just passed in review his whole life, 
a life of shame, of crime, of utter depravity and wicked- 
ness. Around him was darkness, afar off through the 
gloom the red embers of the soldiers’ bivouac. Jean 
Machu recalled in one brief moment his father’s dying 
words, the sound of the village bells, the exhortations of 
the Abbe Pomereul on that night when the murderer, 
abusing the power given to the penitent by the religious 


2/6 


IDOLS. 


law, had sealed the lips of the son upon the murder of 
the father. 

Did Jean Machil really believe in the depths of his 
soul that there was no future life ? That future life in 
which the Abbe Sulpice must so firmly believe, or he 
would never have kept faithfully the secret of confession. 

In the wretch’s soul one good thought found place. 

“ If I could prove his brother’s innocence,” he thought. 

This idea took such complete possession of him that - 
he cast about for any means of putting it into execution. 

But to accomplish this he would have to escape from 
the cemetery, and pass through the detachments of 
soldiers stationed at all points. 

“If I could change my clothes,” thought Jean Machu. 
He slipped off his coat, bound his arm with his handker- 
chief, and began to grope in the darkness. He recog- 
nized by the touch the uniform of a soldier of the line. 
Slowly, very slowly, for his wounds were painful, and he 
was very weak, Machu took the dead soldier’s clothes. 
Still more slowly he hid his own; but when he had suc- 
ceeded in putting on the uniform, which he soiled by his 
touch, the cold sweat of exhaustion covered his brow, 
and he fell back, muttering, 

“ I can never do it.” 

He made another effort, however, and with indescriba- 
ble exertion managed to get upon his feet. By grasp- 
ing the marble railings, steps, or crosses, and pausing 
ever and anon to rest, he reached one of the alleys of the 
cemetery. A little farther on the light of a campfire 
guided him. His limbs failed, he sank down, but he 
crept along the ground, slowly, slowly, till he was near 
enough to cry out in a faint voice. A soldier heard him, 
hastened to his assistance, and brought him to the fire. 
Some drops of brandy revived him, but, from the pain of 
his wounds and terror at his situation, he fell into a sleep 


THE BARRICADES OF DEATH. 


277 


SO profound that it was almost like a trance. When he 
opened his eyes the friendly voices encouraged him. 
He turned away his face from those honest ones which 
were bending over him, and feebly articulated, 

I “Comrades! Chaussee d’Antin/ The Abbe Pome- 
I reul I” 

“I see,” said one of the soldiers, “you want to be 
brought there ?” 

Machu made an affirmative sign. 

“ Well, as the hospitals are all full, it is the best place 
for you. The first litter will take you there.” 

In a few minutes, Jean Machu, laid upon a stretcher, 
and so weak that he wondered whether he should be 
able to carry out his plan, was being carried by two men 
' to the Rue de la Chaussee d’Antin. 

With a new feeling of shame he had put his arm over 
his face, and as he passed many an honest citizen, be- 
lieving him to be a soldier of that heroic army, uncovered 
with respect. 

Sulpice, Xavier and Sabine were together in a room 
on thj first floor of the house when the concierge ran 
up stairs quite breathless to Baptiste, who brought the 
message to his master. 

“ What do you want ?” said the Abbe Pomereul. 

“They have brought a wounded man here,” said he. 

“A wounded man ?” repeated the priest. 

“Yes, sir, a soldier !” said Baptiste. 

“So, Sabine, your work is not done,” said he to his 
sister, adding to Baptiste. “ Bring him here, till a bed 
can be got ready.” 

Presently the litter-bearers carried their burden into 
Vvhat had been M. Pomereul’ s study. They withdrew 
at once, fully repaid for their pains by Sulpice, and the 
wounded man immediately raised himself to a sitting 
posture. Sabine and her two brothers were at his side; 


2/8 


IDOLS. 


but all at once Sulpice turned deadly pale, while a 
strange fire came into the convict’s eyes. 

“Here,” he said, “they have brought me here. I re- 
’ member the place well. The open safe, the door by 
which he came in. And there, there, the spot where I 
killed him.” 

“ What is he saying ?” asked Xavier. 

“ His mind is wandering,” said the priest. “ Leave me 
alone with him. I must save this soul. God owes it to 
me.” 

Sulpice said these words with such fervor that various 
expressions chased each other over the convict’s face. 

“ Yes,” said he; “ I came to bring it to you. I am con- 
quered. Mademoiselle, give me writing materials, I beg 
of you. And you, sir,” to Xavier, “ stay. I want your 
pardon, too.” 

Without knowing what it all meant, Sabine brought 
what he had asked, and knelt with them beside the dying 
man. 

The Abbe Sulpice held him in his arms. Jean Machu 
wrote four lines in a scrawling hand, rendered almost 
illegible by weakness, and fell back exhausted. Sabine 
made a movement as if to raise him, and he gave her 
such a look of mingled shame, terror and gratitude that 
it went to her heart. 

“ I have not signed it yet,” he gasped. 

His fingers still held the pen. He traced some letters 
which were barely recognizable as the signature of Jean 
Machu. He motioned to Xavier to take the paper. The 
latter took it mechanically, but at one glance his face lit 
up with joy, and he fell at his brother’s feet, saying, 

“ Pardon me, that I could not rise to your heights.” 

Sulpice hastily pressed his brother’s hand, and turned 
to devote his whole attention to the dying convict. He 
held the crucifix to the cold lips, saying. 


THE BARRICADES OF DEATH. 279 

** Die in peace, in the name of the God who died to 
save the world. Die in peace, and may the shedding of 
your blood suffice to wash away your sins.” 

“ No, not mine,” cried Jean Machu, with sudden energy. 
“ My whole life has been a long course of wickedness. 
My death cannot expiate such a life. Even you bear on 
your forehead a scar caused by me. Oh, why do you 
not curse me ?” 

“ But remember the heroic actions of this day,” said 
Sulpice. ‘‘ Oh, I pardon you what is past from my 
heart.” 

“ But your father, your father ?” gasped the felon. 

“ The elect of God are merciful,” said Sulpice. 

Your brother and sister .?” 

“We are Christians,” said Sulpice. 

With admirable patience, sublime charity and fervor, 
the abbe gradually calmed the convict’s terrors. He 
took in his priestly hands that soul covered with so many 
sins and washed it in the Blood of the Lamb. By that 
miracle of inestimable power which is operated in con- 
fession the sins of Jean Machu, scarlet though they were, 
were washed away. His soul was filled with the pleni- 
tude of grace, conveyed by those solemn words falling 
from an apostle’s lips. 

Surely the Lord had awaited that supreme moment to 
reward the sublime faith of Sulpice, for scarcely had the 
words of absolution fallen upon that sinful soul when 
Jean Machu heaved a deep sigh and with that sigh 
passed away. 


28o 


LIPP-LAPP. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

Lipp-Lapp. 

Many guests still came to Methusalem’s table d’hote 
in the Rue Git-le-Coeur, but these assemblies were 
quieter than of yore, the mirth was not so boisterous, 
and even the second-hand dealer himself had a shade of 
anxiety on his face. He got rid as quickly as possible 
of his merchandise, and the Naine often passed whole 
nights in removing the markings from fine linen, upon 
which the embroidered coronet betrayed the source 
whence it had come. Moreover, a stove was placed in 
the Naine’s kitchen, where Methusalem melted up silver, 
making ingots, of which he hastily disposed. Yet, far 
from diminishing, the number of his customers was con- 
stantly on the increase. Methusalem was obliged to 
establish for their accommodation a dormitory or lodg- 
ing-room, as he had before established a table dhote. 
Most of his customers preferred remaining in this wretched 
hole to taking furnished lodgings which might compro- 
mise them. New arrests were being made every day. 
Methusalem’s boarders were already well represented in 
the prisons of the Versaillists, and those who were still 
at large were by no means reassured as to their future. 
The most anxious of all was Fleur d’Echafaud. The 
rank he had held in the army of the Commune, his 
undeniable share in the murder of the hostages, in 
the sacking of the Legion of Honor and the Tuileries, 
in the burning of the Department of Finance and 
the houses of the Rue de Lille, made him prefer the 
tedious and obscure life of the Rue Git-le-Coeur to 
the more brilliant and noisy one he was wont to lead 


LIPP-LAPP. 


281 

among a circle of which he was the oracle. His dress 
had undergone much the same transformation as his 
habits. Instead of the fashionable overcoat and 
cravat, he wore a blue blouse, open at the neck, show- 
ing the collar of the shirt and a bright-colored foulard 
loosely knotted. A black wig concealed his own pecu- 
liar shade of hair. With his cap jauntily set on one side, 
a cigar in his mouth, and his hands in his pockets, 
he looked like a young tradesman taking a holiday. 
Though it is true that every day was a holiday for him. 
Fleur d’Echafaud had also taken care to change his 
quarters. Methusalem’s neighborhood seemed more de- 
sirable just then than the great thoroughfares. Before 
recommencing operations, he was waiting till the politi- 
cal situation should be once more clearly defined, till the 
law had done with the members of the Commune, and 
the crowd of hapless wretches who had followed in its 
bloody track. Moreover, he had never been so carefully 
watched and guarded by the Naine as since the moment 
when he had placed himself, so to say, at her discretion. 
Seeing her eager gaze so constantly fixed upon him, and 
she herself so solicitous for his comfort and welfare, 
Methusalem’s guests were wont to indulge in many a 
rude jest, in which Fleur d’Echafaud himself took part. 

“Naine,” said they, “you must marry the handsome 
Marc.” 

“Yes,” said the Naine one day, in a gloomy voice, “I 
will marry him, and in the church, too.” 

“ Then you believe in God ?” 

A hideous laugh distorted her face. 

“At the Abbey of Monte-a-Regret,” she answered. 

But this time Fleur d’Echafaud did not laugh. A cold 
shudder passed through him. What link bound him 
to the Naine ? As far as his memory could reach, 
he remembered this deformed being seizing him in her 


282 


IDOLS. 


disproportioned arms and carrying him hither and thither 
with inconceivable rapidity. He could recall the booth 
of the mountebank who had trained him, so that he was 
qualified to gain a livelihood on the rope or the trapeze, 
with the permission of the Mayor. The Naine, how- 
ever, took him away and put him at a boarding-school, 
where she forbade him, under the most terrible penalties, 
to mention the profession he had followed for five years. 
Pride, however, would have suggested this precaution to 
Marc, even had the Naine never insisted upon it. When 
he finished school she seemed to abandon him, and he 
supposed she had left Paris. He found her again as ser- 
vant to Methusalem, but he was by that time in Methu- 
salem’s gang, and an intimate associate of Jean Machu. 

“ Can this wretch have some secret design ?” he said 
to himself, “and is she true ?” 

He could not answer, but a vague fear thenceforth 
took possession of him, and he resolved to quit JMethusa- 
lem's hospitable roof as soon as he could create a new 
identity for himself, and pass into a new state of being. 
The burning of the Hotel de Ville, by destroying all 
registers of birth, facilitated such a plan, and the day 
would come when Fleur d’Echafaud would go on this 
errand to the Abbe Sulpice. His share of the hundred 
thousand francs, as well as the proceeds of the late 
pillage, had given Fleur d’Echafaud an income of six 
thousand francs. He could, therefore, choose between 
the peaceful life of a citizen, or the fluctuating career of 
an adventurer. It seemed to him safer to slip into an 
honest man’s shoes. If later he chose to take part in 
such affairs, it would be on a grand scale. He would 
seek to ally himself with some industrial society, under 
the patronage of great names, he would speculate at the 
Bourse, become an unlicensed broker, and succeed at 
length, perhaps, in acquiring a large fortune. 


LIPP-LAPP. 


28^ 


But this fair picture, which he cherished by night and 
by day, had its dark and terrible reverse side. If there 
is a tenacious friendship it is that of the dishonest. 
They do not attach themselves to any one, they cling. 
They never allow one of their number to attain an envia- 
ble situation, except in the hope of future profit. They 
become the leeches of those who, starting at the lowest 
peg, finally reach the highest step of the ladder. Easier 
is it to escape the searching gaze of a detective than 
the affectionate remembrance of a felon. The latter is 
ever the better physiognomist. Jean Machu’s death had 
been a great relief to his former comrade. In dying, 
the convict, overcome by the Abbe Sulpice’s sublime 
generosity, had confessed his crime, and signed his last 
confession with expiring hand. 

Under those circumstances there had been little diffi- 
culty in restoring Xavier Pomereul’s good name, and 
securing his liberty. Fleur d’Echafaud was therefore 
easy on that score. Jean Machu dead, the secret of the 
robbery and murder of the Chaussee d’Antin was safe. 

Some months passed. France was once more at 
peace, though the turmoil of politics prevented any great 
impetus from being given to trade. Every one was 
busy counting his losses, healing his wounds, mourning 
the departed, or calculating the decrease of his income 
through the rise of taxes or the losses sustained through 
war, incendiarism, and the Commune. The factory at 
Charenton still went on. It is true that upon the 
thresholds of the pretty homesteads built for his work- 
men by Antoine Pomereul was to be seen many a young 
mother wearing mourning, and holding her orphaned 
child in her arms. Touching sight ! where the one had 
forgotten how to smile, and the other had not yet 
learned. 

There was, however, no want among these working 


IDOLS. 


^84 

people. The widows received a pension, because their hus- 
bands had fallen in defence of their country. If France 
forgot these improvised soldiers, the Abbe Sulpice re- 
membered the heroes of Champigny, Buzenval and Mon- 
tretout, and he paid their country’s debt to them, with 
a generosity the more admirable that it was promptly 
and simply accomplished. The school took the children; 
apprentices, the labor of whom was always suited to 
their years, worked with ardor. Their main object was 
to please Sulpice, and in this they fully succeeded. 

Xavier definitely left the home in the Chaussee d’Antin. 
The day after his sentence had been reversed and justice 
done him, he called his brother and sister. 

“I am saved,” he said, “but my conscience is not so 
easily rehabilitated. It is proved that I did not kill my 
father, but my life was such as to give rise to the ac- 
cusation. I am only twenty-six, and have yet time to 
reform. It was a terrible lesson, but I will profit by it. 
My debts, which you so generously paid, Sulpice, must 
not come out of your inheritance, nor that of Sabine.” 

“Xavier,” said Sabine, reproachfully, “are you too 
proud to owe that to us ?” 

“ No, my dear child,” said he; “ but I have some sense 
of justice, and a great deal of affection. Besides, you 
know what use I have hitherto made of money; it is 
better not to trust me with any more. I am only con- 
valescent as yet, and might have a relapse. Calculating 
everything — and you will see that I am a ready account- 
ant, Sulpice — I have left myself a capital of 30,000 
francs, that is to say, an income of 1500. I am going 
to live on that.” 

“You ?” cried Sulpice. 

“ Why, it is impossible !” said Sabine. 

“ But you do not take into account what I can earn,” 
said Xavier, and turning to Sulpice he asked, 


LIPP-LAPP. 


285 


“ What do you give your cashier ?” 

“ Six thousand francs.” 

“ Poor Dubois is dying, is he not > Will you give me 
his place ?” 

“ I cannot, my dear boy,” said the Abbe Pomereul. 

“Ah, I understand ! My past record.” 

‘ God forbid that I should doubt your repentance,” 
said the priest, in a voice of deep emotion; “but to fill 
that situation you must know book-keeping.” 

“ Is that all ?” asked Xavier. 

“Of course.” 

“Then it is settled, for I know book-keeping,” said 
Xavier. 

“ How long have you known it ?” 

“For nearly a year.” 

“ Who taught you ?” 

“Dubois himself,” said Xavier; “and the poor old 
fellow almost cried with joy to see what progress I 
made.” 

“That is wonderful,” said Sabine. 

“ There are many wonderful things accomplished by 
the same power,” said Xavier; “and that power is the 
grace of God.” 

“Well, well!” said the Abbe Pomereul. 

“For the past year,” said Xavier, “you have seen me 
going out every day, and have, no doubt, believed that I 
had returned to what I used to call my pleasures.” 

“ No, dear boy, no, never !” said the abbe. 

“ I admit you had every reason to suspect me. My 
faults were so great that my conversion needed to be 
proved by facts. I promised you that I would give 
proof of it. One morning I went to Dubois’s office. He 
was there with his daughter Louise, a pretty, gentle 
creature. They were both writing, the young girl at - 
her father’s dictation. Recognizing me, Dubois rose at 


286 


IDOLS. 


once, out of respect for the family of his master; but 
he did not offer me his hand, as he would have done to 
you, Sulpice.” 

He hardly knows you, Xavier,” said Sulpice. 

^‘The distinction, slight as it was, did not escape me,” 
continued Xavier; ‘‘but it was just. I accepted it as 
such. This man owed me neither esteem nor regard. 
Such as he esteem only the truly deserving, and though 
the unjust sentence which had sent me to prison was 
reversed, I was none the less the worthless and ungrate- 
ful son, who had opened his father’s safe.” 

“ Why recall these painful memories ?” said Sabine 
gently. 

“I have no right to forget them,” said Xavier. “Your 
very kindness impresses them forever on my mind.” 

“And Dubois?” said Sulpice. 

“Dubois closed his books, and made a sign to his 
daughter. Louise was about to leave the room. I 
begged her to remain.” 

“ ‘ Sir,’ said I, addressing that living example of honor 
and honesty, ‘might I ask why you require Mademoi- 
selle’s services ? ’ 

“ The old man reddened. 

“ ‘ My sight is failing,’ said he, ‘ and my strength 
declining. I have need of young eyes and ready hands. 
Louise helps me with the accounts.’ 

“ He paused a moment, and continued with touching 
dignity, 

“ ‘ The Abbe Pomereul is aware of this, sir; perhaps I 
should have given in my resignation, when I found my- 
self incapable of filling the office, which has been mine 
for forty years. But I love this place, this factory. The 
workmen regard me almost as a father. However, sir, 
if you have any objection, speak.’ 

“ ‘ With a man like you,’ I said, ‘ it is better to be per- 


LIPP-LAPP. 287 

fectly frank. You are teaching Mademoiselle book- 
keeping, will you also teach me ? ’ 

“‘You, sir!’ said Dubois, rising in his amazement. 

“ I gently forced him back into his chair, and went 
on. 

“ ‘ My faults and misfortunes,’ I said, ‘ have attained 
such publicity that I owe an equally public reparation 
to my own people and society at large. Repentance 
does not consist in words; it must be proved by deeds. 
I was an idler, I will learn to work; fond of dissipation, 
I will live with all possible regularity; I did nothing, 
I will now do good. Sulpice sowed the good seed, do 
you help me to foster it. Let me be your pupil, and 
while you teach me book-keeping, the heads of the dif- 
ferent departments will initiate me, each one into their 
several employments. I know that the prodigal son will 
not find much favor with these hard-w’orking men. But 
I will bear anything. A time will come when I shall 
reap the fruits of my perseverance, and when even the 
rudest workman will offer me his hand. Believe me, I 
shall value such a recompense.’ 

“ Dubois looked at me in silence, but I saw tears in his 
daughter’s eyes. 

“ I resumed. 

“‘You loved my father, M. Dubois, so did I; spite of 
all my faults, I loved him dearly. His death made him 
even dearer to me. Yet though I have repented, I dare 
not yet pray beside his grave. I am sorry for my faults, 
but I have not yet expiated them. I shall only have a 
right to go there when I am able to obey his last com- 
mand, and take control of the house he founded.’ 

“ Dubois was still silent. 

“ ‘ Oh,’ cried I, ‘ will you refuse to help me ? Surely 
you cannot.’ 

“ He spoke then in a voice of deep emotion. 


288 


IDOLS. 


“ ‘ You appeal to my affection for your father, sir ; that 
suffices. When will you take your first lesson ? ’ 

“ ‘ Now,’ I answered. 

“ I was there for three hours. When I left his manner 
towards me no less than his words delighted me. I had 
not learned much yet, it is true, but I felt my heart grow 
light; at least I had spent my time well. The same day 
I got books, and began to study patiently yet ardently. 
Dubois was astonished at my progress. In a month he 
brought me to the workshop, where he had probably re- 
lated what had passed between us, for every face was 
friendly. They did not make any advances to me, but 
they did not repulse me. 

“ Poor Dubois sank rapidly, and sometimes his daugh- 
ter gave me my lesson in his place. She explained 
things in a sweet grave voice, clearly and precisely. I 
never saw such serenity on any woman’s face before.” 

“Really!” said Sabine, with a mischievous smile. 

“You are malicious,” said Xavier, smiling too. 

“Go on,” said Sulpice; “do not heed her malice.’* 

, “It is ever thus,” she said to Sulpice; “they see, they 
hear, they love.” 

“ Where was I? ” continued Xavier. “ Well, a few days 
ago, when I went there, instead of finding M. Dubois 
in his office, I found Louise, who was looking very pale, 
and who said at once, ‘Would you be so kind, sir, as 
to come up into my father’s room? ’ 

“ ‘ Certainly,’ I answered. 

“ I followed her trembling. 

“ Poor Dubois was in bed. When he saw me he tried 
to raise himself, and held out his hand. My heart leaped 
for joy. I took his offered hand gratefully, for he had 
been the friend of my noble father. He saw my emo- 
tion. He asked me to sit down. 

“ ‘ Come, come,’ said he, ‘ you are a true Pomereul. 


LIPP-LAPP. 289 

Your conduct leaves me less regret now that I must go.* 

“ ‘ But you must not go,’ I said. 

“ ‘ They are calling me up there, sir,’ he said, ‘but my 
last labors have been successful. You know I was 
named the model cashier. My books are in order. My 
accounts ready. There are as few errors on the pages of 
my registers as faults upon my conscience. You now 
know as much as I do; you must henceforth take my 
place.’ 

“ I heard a heart-rending sob. It was from Louise, 
whose face was hidden on her father’s bed. 

‘“Alone! I must leave her alone!’ murmured the 
old man. 

No,’ said I; ‘ Sabine will befriend her.’ 

“Thanks, dear brother,” said Sabine; “you anticipated 
me. 

“ I stayed longer than usual that day at Charenton,” 
resumed Xavier. “ I did not sleep much all night, for I 
was weighing the great responsibility that I was about 
to assume. May I take Dubois’s place, dear Sulpice ?” 

“Xavier,” said the Abbe Sulpice, “you do not know 
what consolation you give me. Yes, brother, with all 
my heart. Repair your faults, work, make new prog- 
ress every day, pray.” 

“ And love,” said Sabine in a low voice. 

“ Do not speak of that,” said Xavier. “ I am not worthy 
of such happiness yet.” 

“To-morrow,” resumed Sulpice, “we will go together 
to Charenton. I want to install you myself in your new 
place.” 

“And I to make an agreement with Louise,” said Sa- 
bine. 

“ Ever the best of sisters,” said Xavier. 

“ It is sweet to contribute to the happiness of others,” 
said she. 


290 


IDOLS. 


“ Will you never think of your own ?” said he. 

Sabine shook her head. 

“My happiness was a dream, Xavier,” she said. “He 
who should have kept the shrine and the figure it con- 
tained inviolate has offered sacrifice to false gods.” 

“You are too severe, Sabine.” 

“ I am just.” 

“ But it was your rejection drove Benedict to despair.” 

“ One who does not know how to suffer,” said she, “ is 
not worthy to be happy. Besides, brother, the man 
whom I loved was the Christian artist, despising the 
easy success which is a disgrace to the chisel and a 
stain upon a character. The papers are loud in his 
praise just now, I know; he is doing a work which will 
give him a high place amongst our sculptors, ‘ Hylas 
and the Nymphs,’ but a work which would make me 
blush. No, this devotee of pagan art is not the man 
from whom I accepted the statuette, to whom I gave my 
hand, and from whom I received a betrothal ring.” 

There were tears in her eyes, though she spoke calmly 
and her face was pale. 

“You are suffering, Sabine,” criM Xavier, “you are 
suffering.” 

“Yes, I do not deny it,” said she, “but I will be firm. 
God can console every sorrow, and will calm this as 
well. Virtue, Xavier, is often like the bitter draught 
given to the patient, the honey of sacrifice is at the 
bottom of the cup. I weep not so much for Benedict as 
for my old faith in him. I weep for the noble and dis- 
interested man, who refused a dowry from my father; 
the good and honest man, who led a life of strict integ- 
rity and practical piety; the artist, who despised the 
approbation of the vulgar, and had Christ too clearly 
before his eyes to ever set up base idols in opposition.” 

Xavier kissed his sister. 


LIPP-LAPP. 


291 


“ You are a noble girl,” said he. 

“Do not pity me, Xavier,” said she, “if I lose the 
world I will gain heaven; and we can each have our little 
martyrdom, though we do not bear, like Sulpice, the 
aureola upon our foreheads.” 

Next day, according to promise, Sulpice accompanied 
Xavier and Sabine to Charenton. They went first to see 
Dubois. At sight of Sulpice his face lit up. 

' “ I wanted to see you, sir,” he said. 

The priest sat down at the bedside, and the rest re- 
tired. While Sabine conversed in a low voice with 
Louise, Xavier regarded the two girls attentively. They 
formed a charming contrast. Sabine, fair, delicate, and 
slender; Louise, a perfect brunette. Louise was crying 
bitterly, and Sabine consoling her with many affectionate 
words. It was nearly an hour before Sulpice called them 
back to the sick-room. Dubois drew his daughter to his 
breast. 

“ I am dying,” said he,“ but the Lord in His mercy has 
granted me a last grace; He never forsakes those who 
put their trust in Him. You will not be alone in the 
world. The Pomereul family will adopt you. To them 
I leave you.” 

Louise only answered by her tears. The father drew 
his daughter’s face closer to his own, and whispered 
some words which the others did not hear. They 
seemed to disturb her, for she blushed and trembled, 

“ It is my last wish,” said her father. 

“Father, oh father !” cried she. 

“ A sacred request,” said he. 

Louise might have objected further, but her father 
took her hand from before her face, and said, 

“ Promise, till I bless you.” 

“ I promise,” said she, kissing the hand which was 
about to bless her. 


292 


IDOLS. 


Sabine stayed all night with Louise.. Sulpice went 
back with Xavier to Paris. The latter seemed greatly 
dejected; he hardly spoke to his brother, and Sulpice 
saw tears in his eyes. He did not ask the secret of this 
poignant regret, for did not Xavier know that it was the 
priest’s mission to share all sufferings and console all 
pain ? Next day they went again to Charenton, and, hav- 
ing seen Dubois and Louise, Xavier was installed in his 
new position. Thenceforth he entered upon its duties. 
When Sulpice saw him through the glass doors of the 
office, surrounded by papers and books tipped with 
brass, writing busily and wholly absorbed in his work, 
he could not restrain an exclamation of joy. Xavier 
showed him the books. 

“What do you say to that writing,” said he, “and my 
figures? I have made progress since I used to scrawl 
my morning notes.” 

“ Indeed you have,” said Sulpice; “I am more than 
satisfred with you.” 

For a week Dubois struggled with that terrible con- 
queror Death. Not that he feared it, for he had lived 
well; but the earthly tenement still sought to retain its 
tenant, the soul. He died in his daughter’s arms, press- 
ing the crucifix which Sulpice held to his lips. 

The news of the honest cashier’s death brought gen- 
eral grief to the factory. The workshops were closed, 
and the workmen all went to pray beside his mortal re- 
mains. Sulpice and Xavier paid the expenses of 
the funeral, and the faithful clerk was buried with 
the greatest honor. But besides the richness of the 
funeral draperies, there was a great concourse of people. 
When a stranger stopped, surprised at the display, to 
ask who was being buried, the Charenton men replied 
proudly: 

“ An employe of the house of Pomereul.” 


LIPP-LAPP. 


293 


Dubois had asked that a cross might be placed over 
his grave. So a cross rose among flowers upon his 
funeral mound. When the grave-digger had finished 
his dismal task, Louise drew near the monument, hold- 
ing two wreaths in her hand. She hung one upon an 
arm of the cross, and Xavier, seeing that she kept the 
other, said, 

“You are forgetting this one.” 

“No,” said she, “it is for our benefactor.” 

And in fact the coachman had evidently received 
orders, for on leaving Charenton, instead of going to- 
wards home, he drove to Montmartre. Xavier was 
silent, but his emotion was deep. He dared not ques- 
tion his brother, and Sabine, who had her arm about 
Louise, avoided meeting his eye. Never, since M. Pom- 
ereul’s death, had Xavier accompanied them to the grave 
of the father whose life he had embittered. It seemed 
that Sulpice was now bringing him there, as if to say, 

“Repentance has effaced your faults. Be restored to 
your rights; in the name of our dead father, I pardon 
you.” 

The carriage stopped at the gate of the cemetery. 
They all alighted. Louise would have fallen, but Xavier 
silently offered her his arm. 

It was . a melancholy autumn day, the dreariness of 
which was the more perceptible that it was among the 
first; the dead leaves crackled under foot, gray clouds 
scudded across the sky, driven by a chilly wind. The 
roses were all dead, and the late chrysanthemums reared 
their purple heads, already touched by the frost. Sulpice 
walked first, and Sabine and he were soon kneeling be- 
fore a marble tomb. A sort of awe kept Xavier back, 
but Sulpice, turning, said simply, “ Come.” 

And Louise, offering him the wreath, said, “ Go.” 

Xavier took it, raised it to his lips, and fell prostrate on 


294 


IDOLS. 


the marble slab, sobbing aloud. Through his sobs one 
word could be distinguished: “ Pardon ! pardon 1” 

Sulpice whispered to his sister, 

“ Take Louise away, and leave me with Xavier.” 

The young girl obeyed. 

And the two brothers remained alone in the vast ceme- 
tery, already overhung with shadows. 

Sulpice knelt beside Xavier, and said, 

“ You have asked our father’s pardon. Now ask par- 
don of God.” 

“ You wish — ” said Xavier, bewildered. 

^‘That, prostrating yourself here in this place of 
mourning, you should arise purified from every stain.” 

“ But how can I ? I am not prepared,” said Xavier. 

“To open your heart to the priest ?” said Sulpice. “ To 
go to confession ? Why, your amendment of life for the 
past year and your present tears are preparation enough. 
The suffering soul is always well prepared to receive 
grace, salvation, mercy. And can I not assist you ? Can 
any other heart as well as mine console yours ? My 
tears will be united with yours, and if the sacrifice of 
a life, the holocaust of a heart be necessary, I am a vol- 
untary victim, offering up the merits of a God to obtain 
mercy for you.” 

What passed after that was known to God alone. 

The ardor of the apostle, the eloquence of the preacher, 
the piety of the priest, and the affection of a brother, all 
combined to soften and touch that still rebellious heart; 
and when the words of absolution had fallen on Xavier, 
Sulpice clasped his hands with indescribable joy. 

* Father,” said he, “your lost son is found ; the dead 
has come to life.” 

Tears of mingled joy and sorrow, the outpourings of 
a heart ennobled by its priestly office, the repentance, the 
firm purpose of amendment, and the sweetness of recon- 


LIPP-LAPP. 


295 


ciliation with God, were all experienced by the two 
brothers; they knew the joy which God reserves for 
those who love Him. It grew dark, and Sulpice took his 
brother away. They hired a cab, and were soon speed- 
ing towards the Chaussee d’Antin. 

As far up as the Rue de la Victoire, an immense crowd 
impeded the driver’s progress. Carriages were all 
drawn up, and horses pawed the ground impatiently. 
Shouts of laughter, which seemed contagious, could be 
heard in the distance, and repeated through the crowd, 
with cries of: 

“ He’ll catch him.” “ No, he won’t catch him.” 

“Let us get out,” said Xavier; “we may be kept an 
hour here, and we can make our way through the 
crowd.” 

They paid the man his fare, and attempted to force a 
passage for themselves. But it was useless. They had 
to wait. They got on a few steps, when a sudden move- 
ment of the crowd thrust them back farther than ever. 

“What is it all about?” asked Xavier of a spectator. 

“ I hardly know, sir but it’s something about a 
monkey.” 

“Just like Jocko, the monkey of Brazil,” said a boy, 
“I saw that at the Ambigu for fifteen sous.” 

“ A monkey ?” repeated Xavier. 

“Just imagine, citizen,” said the boy in a shrill voice, 
“ about ten minutes ago this great devil of an ape was 
sitting upon a balcony, watching the passers-by with a 
melancholy face. He must belong to some people who 
have chiCy for his dress, which would be a Mardi Gras 
for us, looks like the big pictures in the Louvre. There 
he lay, like the Pacha of Egypt, on silk cushions, looking 
about him. I was looking about, too, and seeing the 
ape, began to make faces at him, which he returned — an 
exchange of civilities. But all of a sudden he got on his 


296 


IDOLS. 


feet — I wouldn’t say claws to a man of the woods so well 
dressed that la Belle Jardiniere has nothing to equal him. 
He leaned over the balcony and looked down, growling 
all the time to himself. I looked in the same direction, 
and saw a fine young man in a blue blouse. He seemed 
like a printer, for you see, citizen, I always think that 
printers — ” 

“ What next, what next ?” cried Xavier impatiently. 

“You are interested? All right, I’ll go on. The fine- 
young man with the black hair and red foulard necktie 
was going along gayly, swinging a stick. I believe 
the monkeys are about tired of sticks ; they got too 
much of them among the negroes.” 

“ Go on, go on !” cried Xavier excitedly. 

“ Decidedly, I am a success. I must learn to recite 
the ^Je te ramene ’ that I heard at the Comedie Franpaise, 
with an old gentleman’s ticket. To return to the ape. 
The young man was spreading himself like a chap that’s 
got chink in his pockets, when all of a sudden the mon- 
key jumped over the balcony and rushed at him. He 
was frightened, and yelled like anything; off he ran, and 
the monkey after him. Everybody laughed, shouted, 
and cried out, ‘ He’ll catch him,’ ‘ No, he won’t.’ It’s all 
very fine, though, but I’m taking proofs to an author, 
and this has delayed me exactly thirty-five minutes. But 
I’ll tell him all about it; he can make it into copy, and 
I’ll ask a share in the copyright.” 

“ Here’s for your story,” said Xavier, putting his hand 
in his pocket and drawing out a twenty-franc piece, 
which he gave to the boy. 

“You must be a prinCe in disguise,” said the boy. 

“ I’ll catch the monkey, if you like, for the same price.” 

“ Do, if you can,” said Xavier. 

“We think alike,” said Sulpice, “it is Lipp-Lapp.” 

But the crowd all at once changed its tone, and excla- 


LIPI^-LAPP. 297 

mations of horror and anxiety were heard on all sides. 

“ The man’s lost,” cried they. 

“ Will no one kill the cursed beast ?” cried one. 

“How fiercely he growls over his prey!” cried another; 
“ it’s horrible !” 

Xavier and Sulpice threw themselves blindly into the 
crowd, and soon reached the scene of horror. For such 
it really was. He whom the boy had described as a fine 
young man was now pale, haggard, badly bitten, his 
! throat encircled by the bony fingers of the ape, gasping 
for breath and writhing in agony. No one dared to ap- 
proach the terrible beast; they waited for the appearance 
of the police. At last a policeman came, sword in hand, 
and was about to attack the ape, when Xavier interposed. 

“The ape is mine; you must not kill it,” he said. 

“ But the animal is mad, sir,” remonstrated the officer. 

“ Do you observe,” said Xavier, holding the policeman 
back, “the chimpanzee has just torn off the black wig 
1 and disclosed the man’s real hair, which is of a peculiar 
I red ?” 

|. Looking at the wretch closely, a light flashed on 
: Xavier’s mind. 

“Marc Mauduit !” he cried. 

And fairly bruising the officer’s arm in his nervous 
I grasp, he said, 

“On my soul, sir, Lipp-Lapp has just arrested the 
I accomplice ofi Jean Machu, who murdered my father !” 

The policeman immediately seized Marc Mauduit, as 
[ Xavier called off Lipp-Lapp. The latter seemed to 
understand that it was all right. He showed his teeth 
in a broad grin, and opening his brocade gown, pointed 
to a large white mark on his breast. It was the scar of 
the wound which Fleur d’Echafaud had given him. 
J Then waving triumphantly the tuft of red hair which he 
i held in his clenched hand, he offered it to Xavier. Just 


298 


IDOLS. 


as the ape had garroted Marc Mauduit, and Xavier and 
Sulpice had witnessed the sudden denouement of the 
bloody tragedy which had begun by the murder of 
their father, a deformed creature suddenly appeared 
emerging from the Rue de Provence. 

Fleur d’Echafaud recognized her. 

“ Naine !” cried he, “oh Naine !" 

The physical monster looked into the face of the moral 
monster, and an expression of sardonic joy lit up her 
eyes, as, clapping her hands in savage glee, she cried, 

“Andre Nicois, it is our turn now 


THE dwarf’s secret. 


299 


CHAPTER XIX. 

The Dwarf’s Secret. 

The Naine ran at full speed through the streets, jos- 
tling the passers-by, upsetting flower-stands, deaf to in- 
vectives or taunts. She only stopped when, as she was 
about to Cross the great court-yard of the banker’s 
dwelling, a tall lackey in gorgeous livery seized her by 
one of her long arms, and dragged her almost from under 
the horses’ feet. The two splendid horses were attached 
to a carriage just then entering the yard. In this mag- 
nificent equipage sat a lady still young and sumptuously 
attired, upon whose features, beneath their mask of 
pride, was the imprint of some consuming sorrow. The 
Naine looked at her with an expression of such intense 
hatred that the banker’s wife was startled. Leaning out 
of the carriage, she said imperiously, 

^‘You know very well I allow no beggars here.” 

The Naine gave a fierce laugh. 

“ I do not come to beg,” she said. “ I come to sell.” 

The horses and carriage passed on, and the lackey was 
about to obey his mistress’s injunction and drive the 
Naine from the yard, but she pushed him aside with 
astonishing strength, and said to the footman at the 
door, 

“Your master is in. I must see him.” 

Her tone was such that, the man hesitated. 

“ Do you happen to think, you living curiosity,” said 
he at last, “ that my master receives people of your sort ? 
Be thankful if he throws you some sous.” 

“ Did you hear what I said to his wife ?” cried the 
Naine. “ I don’t ask for anything, I bring something. 


300 


IDOLS. 


Listen ! The millionaire banker does not often give 
audiences, but I promise you he will turn you away to- 
morrow if you do not let me in. I want to speak to him, 
and I will see him, if I have to crouch like a dog at his 
door till he comes out.” 

“ Out of this !” said the lackey, pushing her with his 
foot, “ or ril call the police.” 

The Naine shrugged her shoulders, and began to 
fumble in her pocket, producing at length an old paper 
and a placard yellow and falling to pieces with age. 

Can you read ?” she said to the lackey. 

“ I don’t want to see your papers,” said he. 

‘‘Run your eye over that,” said she;, “it will make 
your fortune, perhaps.” 

The lackey read a few lines, stopped in astonishment, 
and looking at the Naine, said, “Well ?” 

“Take those to the banker, and say that a person who 
brings him news is waiting.” 

The lackey suddenly changed his mind about the 
dwarf, and, anxious to display his great zeal, refused to 
transmit the commission to M. Nicois’ valet, but ran up- 
stairs himself, and asked to speak to the banker. The 
banker, in surprise, told them to admit the man. The 
latter, whose name was Lamourel, bent double and said, 
in a voice of well-feigned emotion, 

“You will pardon my unusual conduct, sir, in con- 
sideration of my motive.” 

“What is your motive, and what do you want, La- 
mourel?” said Nicois. 

“ I thought there was no use letting the whole house 
into your secrets, sir,” said Lamourel mysteriously. 

“I have no secrets. What do you mean?” cried 
Nicois. 

“ I do not venture to pry into my master’s affairs,” said 
the servant; “ I only wished to save him a great shock.” 


THE DWARF*S SECRET. 


301 

“ Say what you have to say, Lamourel, and be done 
with it. I am busy,” said Nicois impatiently. 

“ Do you recognize this, sir ?” said the lackey, laying 
the paper open on the banker’s desk, and taking care to 
point out the paragraph indicated by the Naine. 

The banker scarcely suppressed a cry of pain. 

“ Where did you get this ?” he cried. “ What do you 
want ? Why do you revive — ” 

“ There is a woman below.” 

“ A woman ? Go on.” 

“ She brings you some news.” 

“ And she gave you this placard and this paper ?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ Why did you not bring her here at once ? Run down 
for her, Lamourel !” 

“ Because she is poor, deformed, hideous.” 

“ What does that matter ? She may possess the hap- 
piness of my whole life.” 

Lamourel hastened out. 

Andre Nicois, a prey to conflicting emotions, read 
over every line of the paragraph in the paper which the 
Naine had so carefully preserved. In the column of 
casualties, were the lines: 

“ A terrible misfortune has befallen a highly respected 
family. A child belonging to M. Andre Nicois was 
stolen while walking with its nurse. The unfortunate 
girl, feeling that she had neglected her charge, would 
have drowned herself but for the intervention of the 
police. Every effort has been made to find the banker’s 
son, but hitherto with no success. Fears are entertained 
that the mother will lose her reason.” 

“How well I remember! How well I remember,” 
gasped Nicois, “my beautiful boy, my idolized Marc! 
Shall I at last find the key to this enigma? Will he be 
restored to me after twenty years ? How much he may 


302 


IDOLS. 


have suffered ! What has he become ? What is he doing? 
His misfortunes will only make him dearer to me. Oh ! 
why does not this woman come ? What is keeping 
her ?” 

As he spoke, the Naine entered the room. Prepared 
as he had been to behold a wretched object, the banker 
was surprised. He scarcely restrained a gesture of 
disgust and abhorrence; but overcoming his repugnance, 
he held out the paper to the Naine. 

“You brought this, saying you had some revelation to 
make,” said the banker. 

“Yes,” answered the Naine brusquely. 

“Well, speak out, tell me all, and be assured I shall 
not be ungrateful.” 

“ I also brought you a placard,” said the Naine. 

“Yes, relating to the same occurrence. Tell me what 
you know.” 

“I want you first to re-read the placard,” said the 
Naine. 

Andre Nicois read in a low voice: 

“A reward of 25,000 francs is offered for whoever will 
discover and bring back to A. Nicois, banker, his stolen 
child — ” 

“ That’s enough,” said the Naine; “ have you the 25,000 
francs ?” 

“ Yes, and I am ready to pay them. I will double the 
sum. I will sacrifice half my fortune.” 

“The sum mentioned will do,” said the Naine; “only 
it must be paid in advance.” 

“ Do you doubt me ?” said the banker. 

“It is my habit,” answered the Naine. • 

“ But should your information be insufficient?” 

“It is such as will enable you to see your son to- 
morrow, if you wish.” 

“You have proofs and documents?” 


THE dwarf’s secret. 


303 

“Proofs and memories, proofs and documents,” she 
repeated, 

“Are you aware,” said Andre Nicois, “that you are 
acting in a very suspicious manner ? I could have you 
arrested.” 

“Have me arrested,” said the Naine; “what can you 
say against me ? What can you prove ? I am poor, de- 
formed, and ugly, but I work as a servant now, and used 
to be exhibited at country fairs as a deformity. Yet 
hitherto I have not done anything that comes within the 
province of the police. Drive me out or have me 
arrested, whichever you please, but I will not speak till 
I have got the 25,000 francs.” 

Nicois opened a drawer and counted out the money, 
handing it to the Naine. 

“I am waiting,” he said simply. 

“Will you give orders that no one interrupts us ?” said 
the Naine; “what I have to say will be long.” 

The banker rang; his valet appeared. 

“ Firmin,” said he, “ I am not at home to any one.” 

“ Good,” said the Naine, thrusting the bank-notes into 
her pocket; “now we can talk. You asked for proofs. 
Here.” 

The strange being drew from her breast a greasy 
portfolio swollen with letters, passports, and parchments 
of all sorts — scraps of paper covered with various hand- 
writings, most of them scrawling and illegible — and 
threw them all into her lap, to use at need. 

“You are growing old now, M, Nicois,” began she; 
“ but you were young once, and in youth the heart beats 
spite of' everything. A man becomes a banker, but does 
not become all at once a miser. At twenty you did not 
care so much for heaping up gold, and you enjoyed your 
youth. Do you remember Louise Michau ?” 

The banker shivered. 


304 


IDOLS. 


“I see you remember,” resumed the Naine; “she was 
the daughter of respectable people, though she had no 
other fortune than her two strong arms. Her dowry 
was her beauty; they called her Louise the Blonde.” 

“Why recall these things?” said Nicois; “it is of my 
son I want to hear.” 

“Do not interrupt me,” said the Naine; “I speak 
slowly, and sometimes unconnectedly; it is just as I can.^ 
My mind is as dull as my body is deformed. If I once 
lose the thread of my thoughts, I may never recover it.” 

The banker threw himself back in his chair with 
forced and painful resignation, saying, 

“ I am listening.” 

“ Louise was as good as she was pretty, and as confid- 
ing as good. She did not know how to lie herself, and 
she never dreamt that any one could deceive her. A 
man told her that he loved her, spoke of marriage, and 
of a brilliant future. Louise saw in such a union the 
happiness of her family, an affection equal on both sides, 
and all the joy of an alliance contracted in the sight of 
God and men, and — ” 

The Naine sprang to her feet, pointing her out- 
stretched arm at the banker, as she continued: 

“ That man lied. A rich heiress crossed his path; he 
forgot his first love, who was poor. Andre Nicois, you 
were a brutal and selfish coward !” 

The banker did not resent the insult which this mon- 
strous being flung in his face. The remembrance of his 
fault, which he had avowed to the Abbe Sulpice, still 
tormented him at times. He bowed his. head, while the 
woman went on, in a voice husky with emotion: 

“I said that the family of this girl was respectable. 
Shame had never come upon them. Louise, smarting 
under the sense of desertion, fled from the home wherein 
she had passed her childhood. One creature alone 


THE dwarf’s secret. 


305 


knew her whole melancholy story. Andre Nicois you 
were her murderer !” 

The Naine paused a moment, and went on: 

“ One morning the body of Louise was found in the 
river; her dress had caught on a branch, and her corpse 
was floating among the sedges. If you had seen her 
then, livid and ghastly, her eyes glassy, her lips purple, 
the sight would have touched even your brazen heart. 
But you had other things to think of. You were married 
to a rich heiress, and you were beginning to lay the 
foundation of your fortune.” 

The Naine drew out a package of letters, tied with a 
black ribbon, from amongst the papers in her lap. 

“ Here are your letters to Louise,” she said. “ Do you 
recognize them ?” 

“Yes,” said the banker in a low voice. 

“Do what you like with them now,” said the Naine; 
“ the armful of proofs which I possess will be of no use 
after this.” 

“ But, my son ! my son !” cried the banker. 

“You did not know, perhaps,” said the Naine, taking 
no heed of the banker’s impatience, “ that Louise had a 
sister. There is a story about the pretty daughter of a 
merchant, called Beauty, and a monster, who was called 
the Beast. In Louise’s home lived, or rather vegetated, g 
shameful, hideous creature, a spectacle of ugliness, a 
curse and an affliction, at sight of whom children cried. 
Her mother and sister bore with her patiently; but no 
one else loved her. 

“ Now, this monstrous being took it into her head that, 
as men shunned her, she would spend her time among 
beasts, with whom she was more on an equality. She 
longed to have a farm stocked with all kinds of animals, 
and away off on the borders of a wood. As the city cast 
her off, she craved the desert. 


3o6 


IDOLS. 


“ The day when Louise had been asked in marriage 
and believed herself loved by a rich man, she led 
this monster into the little garden, and, taking both her 
ugly hands in her own soft white ones, said, 

‘‘ ‘ Rose,’ for the dwarf was named Rose, ‘ I am very 
happy. I am going to marry Andre Nicois. Do not 
shake your head, he has given me this engagement ring. 
Now, you have often admired the farm of the Huchettes. 
Well, that will be my wedding present. You will live 
there quietly, well off, and I hope as happy as you can 
be in this world.’ 

“ Rose threw her arms around her sister’s neck, over- 
come with joy. How deeply was she interested in this 
marriage; with what eager curiosity did she question 
Louise thereupon ! No doubt she was glad of her sister’s 
good fortune; but Rose had a selfish, evil side to her 
character, engendered by the contempt, unkindness, and 
aversion of every one. 

“ The monster, from whom her own mother sometimes 
turned away in disgust, had henceforth only one thought: 

“‘My sister’s marriage will make me rich in my turn.’ 

“ Every day she went to the farm, and, standing outside 
the paling, calculated the extent of the fields, counted on 
her fingers the number of trees; and, seating herself joy- 
ously on the ground, fixed her eyes on the blue slates of 
the roof as they glittered in the sunlight, repeating like 
a clock, tick-tack, tick-tack, the words that expressed all 
her hopes: “ ‘ The Huchettes will be mine.’ 

“ This was a wild ambitious dream that haunted the 
half-demented brain of the Beast, who bore the name of 
Christian and kept a woman’s heart under her hideous 
covering. She could not sleep at night, and when her 
eyes were closed she saw a great flower-strewn field, 
with the farm standing in the middle of it, and great 
meadows and running brooks. How she questioned 


THE dwarf’s secret. 


307 


Louise: ‘What did your lover say yesterday? Is the 
marriage day fixed ? Why not confide all to your 
mother, and get your certificate of baptism ?’ 

“ ‘ He wants me to wait awhile, answered Louise sub- 
missively, ‘so I wait.’” 

The Naine sought out another paper from her lap, and 
placed a printed announcement of marriage on the desk 
before the banker. Then she went on: 

“ So Louise waited till Andre Nicois, who had promised 
to marry her in the village church, became the husband 
of Mdlle. Dupernois. When she ceased to wait, she very 
soon ceased to live. You have the .announcement of 
your marriage there; here is the report of the policeman, 
testifying to having found Louise’s body in the river.” 

Andre Nicois crumpled the two papers in his hand, 
and remained a moment with his eyes closed, overcome 
by these memories. When he opened them, the Naine 
.was standing in front of him, watching him with the 
ferocity of a wild beast. 

“ You are Rose !” exclaimed he. 

“Yes,” said she, “Rose, the sister of the dead girl, 
whose fate I swore to avenge, avenging myself at the 
same time.” 

“What had I done to you?” said Nicois; “I never 
even saw you.” 

“ What had you done to me ?” she screamed. “Do you 
forget my dreams of fortune, my farm, the future Louise 
meant to make for me, if you had kept your promise ? I 
do not pretend to be more loving than I am. I was 
sorry for Louise, because she was always kind and sym- 
pathizing, but I was more sorry for the fortune of which 
you had robbed me. My double sorrow filled me with 
rage and hatred against you. My rage was that of a 
beast deprived of its prey. For months I was half 
crazed, going from the Huchettes to the river, and from 


IDOLS. 


308 

the river to the cemetery. Sometimes I wept for my 
sister, oftener yet I cast about for means of revenge. I 
thought of taking an axe or a stick and killing you, some 
dark night, at the street corner. But I remembered that 
your sufferings then would be too short, and I sought 
another means. Dying would be only one struggle, a 
little blood spilt, and that’s all. Louise had only suffered 
for a short time, but I was never, never to realize my 
hopes. Beings like me, deformed in mind and body, are 
slow and sluggish. At last, one day I heard you re- 
quired a nurse. I knew you had a child. My vengeance 
was at hand. That day I uttered shrieks of joy and 
danced like a madwoman. At last I could punish you; 
at last avenge my sister on your wife and child.” 

“I see it all! I see it all!” cried the banker. 

“ The Beast became as cunning as a fox. She gained 
every approach to your house. She flattered the ser- 
vants, and made them believe she could tell their 
fortunes from their palms. She mad.e friends with the 
dog by bringing bones to his kennel. She did not 
hurry. Her work was like that of the snail. She pro- 
ceeded slowly but surely. You remember going to 
Austria?” 

“I remember. Oh! I remember,” said the banker. 

“ Your family was in Paris at the time. I watched your 
house, followed your child, spied upon the servants, and 
one day, taking advantage of a crowd of children who 
had collected to see some show in the Champs Elysees, 
I carried off your son through the crowd, took him in 
my arms and ran. He laughed at first, thinking I was 
playing. When he began to cry, I brought him to my 
garret, took off his rich clothes, dressed him in rags, 
and started for the country. 

“ I ran, ran, breathless and panting. The child, tired 
of crying, had fallen asleep. When he woke, we were 


THE dwarf’s secret. 


309 


far from the city. I left him with some peasants, and 
went home. They thought I had been taking a long 
walk, and did not question me as to my absence. Your 
wife, half crazed with sorrow, wrote to you, and you 
came back. You put up placards, offering a reward of 
25,000 francs for the recovery of your son. I hesitated. 
With that amount I could purchase the Huchettes. But 
on reflection I saw that the event was too recent. Sus- 
picion would have turned upon me, and before pay- 
ing me the price I should have been questioned. I 
would have got months or years in prison for the return 
of your son. Besides, I not only wanted to enrich my- 
self, but to revenge my sister. So Marc never returned 
to you. I often wondered what I should do with him. 
It was impossible to leave him long where he was. But 
while I was in this state of uncertainty, an incident de- 
cided both our lives. A company of mountebanks passed 
through the country at the time of the Patronal Feast. 
They had a two-headed woman, the Northern Hercules, 
and a five-footed calf. Attracted by the spectacle, I 
mingled with the crowd outside the door. 

“‘Come in gratis,’ said the two-headed woman; 
‘ among professional people — ’ 

“ I went in, and as the spectacle was about ending, the 
clown made a sign to me from behind the curtain of the 
booth: 

“ ‘ The manager wants to speak to you,’ said he. ' 

“‘What for?’ said I. 

“ ‘ He wants you to make an engagement with him.’ 

“ I did not quite understand what he meant, but I 
followed the clown. 

“ The manager, a big, red-faced, coarse-looking man, 
looked at me and laughed, showing every tooth in his 
head. 

“ ‘ Upon my word,’ said he, ‘ I haven’t one like you in 


310 


IDOLS. 


my whole collection. What will you take by the year 
to exhibit yourself at fairs ? Your picture will be on the 
placards, and you will rank with foreign artists.’ 

“ ‘ What will I take ? ’ stammered I. 

“ ‘Yes. A hundred francs a year,’ continued Guigolfo. 
‘costume supplied, expenses paid, food fit fora princess, 
and brandy at discretion.’ 

“ ‘ That will answer,’ said I, enchanted with the pros- 
pect. ‘ But the child ? ’ 

“ ‘ You have a child ? ’ he asked. 

“ ‘ There is one that must go with me,’ said 1. 

“ ‘What age ? ’ 

“ ‘ Three years.’ 

“ ‘ Pretty, easy to train ? ’ 

“ ‘ Fair, rosy, and slender.’ 

“ ‘Twenty francs a year for the child, and we will sign 
an agreement for four years.’ 

“ ‘ When do you leave ? ’ 

“ ‘ To-night.’ 

“ ‘ Where will you be to-morrow?’ 

“ ‘ At Melun.’ 

“‘Wait for me there, and I will bring the child.’ 

“ I shook hands upon it with Guigolfo and ran home. 
At dawn I set out; a neighbor wrote a line for me to 
my parents, telling them I was going, but not saying 
where. At the Mayor’s office I asked in your name 
for Marc’s certificate of baptism. Such documents are 
free to the public. I got it without any difficulty. That 
evening I set out for Melun, and in the middle of the 
night came up with the showman’s wagons. The barking 
of dogs, squealing of monkeys, and crying of an infant 
greeted me. The manager opened the vragon-door and 
let me in. The child and myself were given a mattress, 
and I slept till morning. The two-headed woman un- 
dressed the child, felt his limbs to see if they were 


THE dwarf’s secret. 


311 

supple, and throwing him like a ball to the Northern 
Hercules, said, 

“ ‘ Good for training! ’ 

“ I signed the agreement for both of us with the man- 
ager.” 

“Wretch! wretch,” cried Andre Nicois. 

“At length I was avenged,” said she; “every day my 
hatred was being gratified. I saw that child upon whom 
you had lavished every care and tenderness beaten and 
starved. He seemed to regard me with the greatest 
horror. Sometimes he stretched out his little arms, cry- 
ing, ‘ Mamma! mamma! ’ and I struck him, saying, 

“ ‘ I am your mother.’ 

“ But he turned from me in horror, and covered his 
face with his hands.” 

The Naine paused a moment to enjoy the banker’s 
horror and despair, then went on: 

“ The physical sufferings of the child were nothing to 
the moral harm done him. When they bruised his body 
they poisoned his mind, filling it with precocious wicked- 
ness. His rosy lips repeated blasphemies, and his 
childish speech was a tissue of horrors. One day I had 
some thoughts of sending him back to you. The 
Northern Hercules asked me to be his wife. It was a 
temptation. I might have had some taste of happiness. 
But the Hercules would not have your son. Common- 
sense, however, forbade me to accept this man, who 
would no doubt have soon begun to treat me cruelly. 
The end of our agreement came. I had saved. I had 
learned many lucrative trades in my travels. I re- 
fused to remain in the troupe. I went to Paris, where I 
was to find the completion of my revenge. I discovered 
your address. I found that the misery of having lost 
your child had estranged you from your wife. She 
no longer loved you; your affection for her was more 


312 


IDOLS. 


in appearance than in reality: you had only one idol, 
gold; one desire, gold; one love, gold — always gold. 

“ Men spoke of your operations at the Bourse, and 
envied your happiness. I knew better, and I never 
envied you. I placed Marc at a modest boarding-school, 
commanding him to be silent as to the past. Fear or 
pride made him discreet, and, more wonderful still, he 
studied. His progress was rapid. I paid his expenses, 
at first out of my savings, then with my wages.” 

“You repented then ?” said the banker. 

“ I repent ? You shall see. I left the necessary 
money with the schoolmaster for Marc, and disappeared. 
I would have wished him to forget me; it would have 
better suited my plans. At eighteen he had a depraved, 
perverse, thoroughly evil nature. As a child he had not 
been innocent; as a man he was utterly bad. At the 
age when most young men know little of life he was 
hardened in evil. He was hypocrite enough to disguise 
his wickedness, and self-controlled enough to await the 
time for its full enjoyment. He played a double role in 
the world: an honest man by day, he was a thief by 
night. For the rest, being a pretty, well-dressed boy, 
paying large sums to his tailor, perfuming his hair, and 
using rice-powder like a woman, with manners by turns 
insolent or fawning^ he succeeded in obtaining a situa- 
tion in an honorable house.” 

“Ah!” said the banker with a sort of relief. 

“ Do you know the Rue Git-le-Coeur?” said the Naine. 

“ I believe it is somewhere near the Prefecture,” said 
the banker mechanicall)^ 

“ Exactly,” said the woman. “ I do not think you make 
many purchases there; for you oftener buy diamonds 
from Falize than old iron from Methusalem. Hovrever, if 
you had done him the honor of going into his shop, you 
would have found me there, scrubbing the floors or 


THE dwarf’s secret. 


313 


taking the markings from linen when I was not cooking. 
Methusalem is a jack-of-all-trades. He makes money 
out of everything— thefts, frauds, table d'hSte, and lodg- 
ing-rooms. I saw your little Marc, then a fine youth 
of eighteen, come in one day to this table. He was ap- 
parently the intimate associate of a thief.” 

“ My God! my God!” cried the banker, burying his face 
in his hands. 

“Up to this time, bad as he was, he had committed no 
actual crime. He had gone through the police courts, 
but had not yet come to the convict-prison. He, how- 
ever, promised so well in the gang he had now joined 
that Jean Machu gave him the name of Fleur d’Echa- 
faud, which he has ever since kept.” 

“lam going mad!” said the banker, “I am going 
mad!” ' 

“ Not yet, Andre Nicois,” said the Naine. “You had a 
friend, a good friend, M. Pomereul.” 

“Yes, but I lost him by a cruel death,” said he. 

“ His son Xavier was accused of the crime, but was 
since released. Do you remember that the police, on 
making a report of the state of the room on the morn- 
ing after the murder, took from the fingers of Lipp- 
Lapp, the chimpanzee, a tuft of red hair ?” 

“Well ?” gasped the banker. 

“ They concluded then, and later on at the trial, that 
the murderer, Jean Machu, had an accomplice. But Jean 
Machu would not betray the man who had assisted him. 
Till yesterday the name of that accomplice was un- 
known.” 

“ And now — now ?“ 

“M. Xavier, once at liberty, wanted to forget all 
about U. But there was one that did not forget, Lipp- 
Lapp, who was wounded by Machu’s accomplice, remem- 
bered his face.” 


IDOLS. 


3H 

Andre Nicois seemed unable longer to follow the 
Naine: his face grew purple; his eyes protruded. 
Hasten, Naine, or you will be powerless to touch him 
further. She threw every word in his face like so many 
blows. 

“ Marc was Antoine Pomereul’s secretary, and the 
information given by him first induced Machu, alias 
Rat-de-Cave, to think of robbing the banker's safe. Sur- 
prised by the master and attacked by the beast, they 
killed the one and left the other for dead. No one sus- 
pected Marc. I knew, but I bided my time. I feared 
that I might not be able to prove my charge. The 
Commune came, and Marc took a bloody part in it. I 
might have had him shot, but that seemed too easy a 
death Yesterday Marc was passing along the Chaussee 
d'Antin, disguised so that no one could recognize him 
except Lipp-Lapp. With his wonderful instinct, the 
beast knew him, leaped into the street, pursued and 
caught him. M. Xavier also recognized him, and he 
was arrested for complicity in the robbery and murder 
of Antoine Pomereul.” 

The banker fell out of his chair, stricken with apo- 
plexy. 

And the Naine ran downstairs, crying to the con- 
cierge, 

“A doctor, quick ! a doctor! Your master is dying.” 

So saying, she disappeared down a neighboring alley- 
way, like a phantom vanishing into the night. 


THE, BROKEN IDOL. 


315 


CHAPTER XX. 

The Broken Idol. 

The smoking-room opening from Benedict Fougerais’ 
studio presented a most animated appearance. A dozen 
or so young men had just risen from an abundant break- 
fast, the champagne whereof had given them a twofold 
animation. They were in fact celebrating the sending 
a model to the government. It was the model of the 
fountain ordered from the sculptor, representing Hylas 
and the Nymphs. 

If the enthusiasm of Benedict’s friends was somewhat 
exaggerated, it must be admitted that his work was 
worthy of all praise. From where the young men sat 
they could see, through the heavily curtained arch of the 
smoking-room, the group chiselled from a block of white 
Carrara marble, resting against a background of crim- 
son velvet. 

It was a classical work — a perfect representation of 
that severity of outline made modern by the perfection 
of form, of which Coysevox dreamed and Clodion re- 
vealed the secret. Certainly it required little short of 
the highest genius to create that polished yet living group, 
breathing youth, glowing youth. Its author might 
well exclaim, 

“ My place is won.” 

Yes, won among those who crave success from wher- 
ever it comes. But changed as Benedict was, he could 
not look on his work without remorse. Near the group 
of Hylas was a statue of clay, almost ready to fail into 


3i6 


IDOLS. 


dust. Unfinished and covered with a veil of gray linen, 
it still attracted the gaze of the artist. It was a plan of 
a St. Cecilia begun from memory. 

“See, old fellow,” said one of his companions, “you 
did well after all to take our advice. If it had not been 
for that famous supper at which we converted you to 
mythology, you would have gone back to the Middle 
Ages, as sure as you live. You would have gone on dream- 
ing, when there is scarcely one of the younger sculptors 
who can rival you. Dubois is spoiled by affectation, 
Carpaux is too impetuous. In a couple of years you 
will be at the head of the new school.” 

“What success you will have at the Exposition!” said 
another. “ You remember how they gave the medal to 
Hiolle for his classical figure of Orion ? Why, you are 
sure of it.” 

“ I have just begun my series of articles on the Salon 
of 1873,” said an art-critic, “and Twill boldly proclaim 
‘Hylas and the Nymphs ’ the work of the year. In all 
my visits to the studios of Paris I have seen nothing to 
approach this work.” 

“ It means fame, Benedict,” said the poet Gildas. 

“And happiness,” added a novelist. 

“To your health, Benedict! to Hylas! to the medal!” 

“Thanks, thanks, my friends!” said Benedict, pleased 
at their enthusiasm, “ you give me confidence. One 
always distrusts himself on the eve of battle. While we 
are at work the fever of production sustains us; when we 
have finished we begin to judge what is done.” 

“It will be the greatest success in ten years,” cried a 
painter. 

“ It will be called the triumph of Benedict.” 

“ It should be crowned,” said Gildas. 

“Yes, it should be crowned,” cried the others, and two 
of the young enthusiasts leaped out of the window and 


THE BROKEN IDOL. 


317 


brought in branches, which they deposited in the arms 
of the nymphs. 

A general hurrah and another bumper of champagne 
saluted this offering. But whilst Benedict strove to enter 
into the mood of his companions, there was a shadow on 
his brow. He blushed at it; it irritated him, and he 
strove to shake off by boisterous mirth this reflection of 
the grief which still gnawed at his heart; but he could 
not. He believed his success certain. His friends did 
not flatter him in predicting it. But when he looked at 
the nymphs, the smile upon their lips seemed to mock 
the pain at his heart. 

‘‘Benedict,” said a crayon artist, “will you come to 
the prison to-morrow ?” 

“ What for ?” said he. “ I have seen the cell of Marie 
Antoinette and the chapel.” 

“ Oh, it is only to s^e a prisoner.” 

“Who ?” 

“ Why, that double-dyed villain, Marc Mauduit, the 
accomplice of Jean Machu, who had the honesty to con- 
fess his crime before he died.” 

“ And to save that unfortunate Xavier Pomereul,” said 
another. 

“An illustrated journal,” said the artist, “ wants the 
portrait of this charming youth, who belonged to the 
Black Cap gang. By my word, I hobnobbed with him 
one night at the Bouffes, when I was a little excited! 
But what, in heaven’s name, are we coming to, if the most 
sedate-looking government clerks and the most prepos- 
sessing secretaries are ready to steal into our confidence 
and obtain at once our handkerchief, our friendship, and 
our watch ? They say he has not lost a whit of his cool- 
ness in prison. He is a curiosity.” 

“ I say, Paul,” said a novelist, “ if Benedict doesn’t 


318 


IDOLS. 


go, let me go in his place. I want a character for my 
next novel, and there’s one ready made.” 

My dear fellow, the simplest way will be to compile 
Marc Mauduit’s notes and documents and make a large 
volume out of them, entitled ‘ Memoirs of Fleur d’Echa- 
faud.’ You will sell fifty thousand copies, I wager.” 

‘‘ Besides, you will save your imagination so much,” 
said Gildas; “the drama is complete.” 

“ How’s that ?” 

“ Well, it seems,” said the poet, “ that Fleur d’Echa- 
faud belongs to an excellent family. Stolen by a sort of 
female Caliban, in revenge for his sister’s death, the 
wretch at first placed little Marc in a circus or the booth 
of a mountebank, or something of that sort. Over and 
above this education on the tight-rope she had him 
taught Latin and Greek to disguise him the more. In 
this new skin he came out as you know, and will end as 
you can foresee. It seems that this monster of a woman 
revealed the whole thing to his parents.” 

“ That explains Fleur d’Echafaud’s attempt to escape,” 
said the painter. “ His family furnished the means, and 
his early training at the circus did the rest; if his foot 
had not slipped in climbing a wall, he would have been 
off to America.” 

“ So you see it is as I said, a perfect drama,” said 
Gildas. 

“ I must have a talk with my publisher about it,” said 
the author; “in a fortnight it would bring in twenty 
thousand francs.” 

“ Will you come, Benedict ?” asked the crayon artist. 

“ No, no,” said he, shuddering. 

Gildas took an opportunity to whisper to the artist: 

“ Never speak of the Pomereul family before Benedict.” i 

The shade of sadness on Benedict’s face was deepet 
than before. x 


THE BROKEN IDOL. 


319 


The young man, however, feeling that he was but a 
sorry host, made an effort, and rising, filled the glasses of 
pink crystal with champagne, saying cheerily, 

“ Keep me company, boys. Let us drink once more 
to the future, to joy, fame, happiness, to all that can 
bring us forgetfulness, to all that will give us new life.” 

Benedict drained the glass, at the very moment that a 
young man, coming to the door, stopped in surprise up- 
on the threshold. But the sculptor recognized him, and 
rushed forward eagerly seizing, him by both hands. 

“Xavier, old fellow!” he said cordially. 

Most of the company knew Pomereul, and greeted him 
warmly. They had often met him in the resorts most 
frequented by men of fashion, the theatre, club, race- 
course. A series of questions followed to which he 
found some difficulty in replying all at once: “What has 
become of you ?” “We never see you anywhere.” “ Are 
you going to run again ?” “ Have you been travelling ?” 

“ Good heavens !” cried Xavier, “one at a time. My 
story will be a surprise to you.” 

“All the better,” said the journalist; “I am never sur- 
prised, only animated. You will give me a new vein.” 

“ In the first place, my friends,” said Xavier, “ I paid 
my debts.” 

“ Paid your debts ?” said a painter. “ Can you show 
your receipts ? 

“I understand,” said the crayon artist; “he payed his 
creditors to establish a base of confidence for future 
operations.” 

“ No, you are out there,” said Xavier, shaking his 
head. 

“ Then explain yourself.” 

“I paid my debts,” said Xavier, “that I might owe 
nothing to the honest people who had trusted me. And 
what is still more astonishing is that after paying for 


320 


IDOLS. 


everything, furniture, horses, carriages, jewelry, I still 
had thirty thousand francs.” 

“ But your father left a great deal of money.” 

“ I include my share of what he left,” said Xavier. “ I 
can tell you, money goes quick in that little flower- 
strewn path called Parisian life. We buy at exorbitant 
prices, we throw money about like princes, we go into 
all kinds of costly eccentricities, and then some morning 
comes the crash, and the end of it is we ruin ourselves 
or our tradespeople. I rather preferred ruining my- 
self.” 

“ But what did you do with the thirty thousand 
francs ?” said one. 

“ What would you have done with it ?” asked Xavier 
of the author. 

“ I should have taken the train to Monaco, and spent it 
there in trying to make more.” 

“ And you ?” to the crayon artist. 

“ I should have gone back for six months to the old 
life.” 

But after that ?” 

“After that I would have become a Chasseur 
d'Afrique.” 

“Well, I am not of the same mind as either of you,” 
said Xavier. “ I made up my mind to live on my income.” 

“ Fifteen hundred francs a year ? Why, never !” 

“ But I could earn something besides.” 

“ How ? You can do nothing, Xavier.” 

“ I could do nothing; I learned.” 

“ What ?” 

“ Book-keeping, and became cashier of our factory.” 

“ That’s a good joke,” cried a chorus of voices. 

Do you think I am joking?” said Xavier to Bene- 
dict. 

“ No,” said Benedict, in a voice of deep emotion. 


THE BROKEN IDOL. 


321 


Now see,” said Xavier, his good-humored voice 
tinged with bitterness, “ we generally say to ourselves 
and others, when we are throwing money right and left, 
^ that ‘we are leading a jolly life.’ But it is false. We do 
not get the worth of our money. We eat highly spiced 
food and drink wines that ruin our digestion. The 
doctors live at our expense. Our horses do not always 
come in first on the turf. The cards deceive us. We 
pass- our nights talking nonsense or dealing out bits of 
pasteboard. The jewellers laugh at us. At thirty we 
have no fortune, no horses, no illusions. One chance 
remains to us. Worn out and blas^^ we marry some 
young girl who does not understand us, and would 
despise us if she could know our past life. Too often 
even this is only a means of retrieving our fortunes, that 
we may pursue the same career. In a few months we 
begin to neglect our wife, and there is one more unhappy 
woman added to the long list. For my part, I followed 
the example of those savages in some part of Oceanica. 
They have idols to whom no sacrifice is too costly. 
They load them with gifts, sending up ardent prayers all 
the while; but if it happens that the idols do not grant 
the desires of their worshippers, if they receive their 
offerings without repaying them in pleasure, martial 
glory, or happiness, the savages snatch, them from the 
altar, spit upon them, insult them, trample them under 
foot, and end by setting fire to them or throwing them 
into the sea. I have done likewise. My idols deceived 
me. I laughed them to scorn and broke them.” 

“ And are you happy now ?” said Benedict. 

“ Perfectly,” said Xavier. “ I have sleep, health, good 
temper. I take an interest in a hundred things that I 
never knew the value of before. I was a worthless 
spendthrift, now I am good for something.” 

“ But who worked this miracle ?” 


322 


IDOLS. 


“My brother first,” said Xavier gravely, then a young 
girl.” 

“ A young girl ?” 

“ Yes; I did not tell you all. I am going to be mar- 
ried.” 

“ To an heiress ?” 

“ No, to a poor orphan. I have nothing, yet she is 
satisfied.” 

“ What is her name ?” 

“ A very obscure one — Louise Dubois. You do not 
know her. Her father, an honest and honorable man, 
was our cashier for forty years.” 

Benedict wrung his friend’s hand. 

The others, seeing that the breakfast was going to end 
in a serious conversation, took their leave, and Benedict, 
with beating heart, found himself alone with Xavier. 
The young men had not seen each other for two years. 
Benedict had fought all during the war. When peape 
was concluded, and Jean Machu’s confession had exon- 
erated Xavier, Sabine besought him not to go near 
Benedict. His name always woke new sorrow in her 
breast. She knew that he had forgotten her, or was 
trying to forget; that the talent she was once so proud 
of had been applied to lower uses. Through the papers 
she learned of Benedict’s new success, and henceforth a 
gulf opened between them. Loving him too much not 
to suffer, and too courageous not to struggle against her 
sorrow, she strove to conceal it from every one. But 
Xavier was not deceived by his sister’s apparent serenity, 
and in spite of her request and his promise resolved to 
find out for himself if Benedict did not share in her 
regret. He knew it was so at the first word Bene- 
dict spoke, and at the first glance he gave him. The 
very way in which he took his hands, the voice in which 
he uttered his name, sufficed to show that Sabine’s mem- 


THE BROKEN IDOL. 


323 


ory survived all else. Scarcely were they alone, when 
Benedict said in a voice of much emotion, 

“Why did you never come all this long time ?" 

“ I knew you were busy and happy,” said Xavier. 

“ Happy !” repeated Benedict, shaking his head. 

“ To-morrow is the opening of the Salon, and you are 
to exhibit your great work to the judges; but its success 
is already bruited abroad. Shall I be the only one who 
has not seen this marvel of modern art ?” 

Benedict pointed to the group. 

“ Go and look at it,” he said. 

Whilst Xavier was examining the fountain, Benedict 
threw himself upon a sofa and buried his head in his 
hands. Xavier stood a long time before the group. 
When he came back to his friend’s side, he said 
simply, 

“ It is really very fine, very fine.” 

But he spoke without enthusiasm, and in a tone which 
betrayed some hidden emotion. 

“ Tell me the truth,” said Benedict all at once in a 
troubled voice. “ I want to hear from your lips the 
truth, terrible though it be, perhaps fatal. I want to 
hear it, even though it puts the last touch to the ruin of 
my soul. Sabine does not love me ?” 

“ She has given you up, at all events,” said Xavier. 

“She never loved me!” cried Benedict vehemently. 
“ She sacrificed me to a mere nothing — a dream — some 
pride of her own.” 

“ I don’t understand you,” said Xavier. 

“ Was it not pride that made her put an end to all that 
her father had arranged between us ? What did I ask 
^ of her in that hour of sorrow and affliction except con- 
stancy and good faith ?” 

“Do you reproach her with the very excess of her 
generosity ?” said Xavier, 


324 


IDOLS. 


Yes,” said Benedict. “ She had no right to drive me 
from her in her grief.” 

“ She did not want to bring dishonor upon you,” said 
Xavier. 

“ She has brought worse — ruin,” said Benedict gloomily. 

“Ruin, when to-morrow you will be famous ?” 

“ Famous ! Ah, you, too, with that word on your lips 
What is this fame to me ? To whom can I offer it ? Will 
any face grow joyful because of my triumph ? No; I 
have toiled, and they tell me I have succeeded; but I 
worked with pain and a sort of rage. I wanted fame to 
avenge me, and I sought it no matter where. Do you 
think I absolve myself, Xavier ? No. To-morrow this 
statue wilt pass out of my keeping; in six months’ time 
it will stand in open daylight, attracting crowds of sight- 
seers; this evil work will make me rich, but it cannot 
make me happy. Oh for the pure fame that I once 
sought for Sabine’s sake ! Oh for the crowns I once of- 
fered, not to pagan deities, but to the Madonna ! All is 
over. I chose this, and I cannot now draw back.” 

Benedict rose and unveiled the rough cast of his St. 
Cecilia. 

“Look at that clay figure,” he said; “it would have 
been worthy of Sabine and of myself. I saw Sabine as 
beautiful as that the evening she sang the O Jesu of 
Haydn, which she will never, never sing again for me.” 

Emotion choked his voice. He made a desperate 
struggle for composure, failed, sobbed aloud, and threw 
himself into Xavier’s arms, saying, 

“ Oh my brother, my brother !” 

Tears came into Xavier’s eyes. 

“ I can understand,” said he. “ I have been too weak 
myself to blame you. On the one hand the saint, on the 
other the idol, and you prostrated yourself before the 
latter.” 


THE BROKEN IDOL. 


325 


“ Xavier,” cried Benedict, with the vehemence of deep 
grief, “ can nothing soften Sabine — prayer, promise, re- 
pentance ?” 

“She could not come in here,” said Xavier, pointing 
to the various groups and statues which adorned the 
room. 

“ No, no, I know,” said Benedict hastily. “ But if I 
purified the sanctuary where she once promised to dwell, 
if I drove the idol from its temple and broke it with the 
same hammer that brought it out of nothing, would Sa- 
bine come ?” 

“ What are you going to do ?” said Xavier, terrified to 
see that his friend had seized a heavy mallet. 

“ I am waiting for your answer,” said Benedict. “ Shall 
my false glory and to-morrow’s success be annihilated ? 
Better so, if I must purchase them at the price of re- 
morse and suffering.” 

“ But this is a work of genius,” said Xavier. “ You 
will regret what you did in a moment of excitement, and 
you will never forgive me or Sabine.” 

“Would she come back .^” cried Benedict again. 

“ Yes,” answered Xavier. 

A terrible noise was heard in the studio. Benedict’s 
hammer had destroyed the group from which an hour 
before he expected so much fame and happiness. 
“Hylas and the Nymphs” flew into bits, and Xavier 
stood by in consternation, wondering whether Benedict 
had gone mad or whether he was merely obeying the 
imperious voice of conscience. In a few moments naught 
remained of the fountain but the shapeless remnants 
strewing the studio floor. And beside them fell Ben- 
edict senseless. Xavier hastily called Beppo, laid Bene- 
dict on the sofa in the smoking-room, lowered the cur- 
tains separating it from the studio, threw the green 
branches offered to the nymphs at the feet of St. Ce- 


IDOLS. 


326 

cilia, and rushed out of the house. He jumped into 
a cab, gave an address, and said to the driver, 

“ Take me there as quick as you can. I will pay you 
well.” 

The carriage fairly flew. Xavier rushed up to his 
sister’s room, threw a Spanish lace veil over her head, 
and, taking her arm in his, said, “ Come. 

“ Where are you taking me ?” said she. 

“Come,” he said in a voice at once tender and im- 
perious. 

Sabine obeyed mechanically. 

When the coach stopped at the Boulevard de Clichy, 
and Sabine, entering the court, saw from the appearance 
of the house that it was specially used by artists, she 
was disturbed. She timidly pressed Xavier s hand. 

“ Where are you taking me ?” she asked. 

He did not answer, but drew her more quickly along. 

The door of the studio was ajar. Xavier opened it 
gently, and Sabine saw at once that it was Benedict’s. 
She would have run away, but Xavier-said, 

“Stay; if you go now it will not be pride, but treason; 
no longer virtue, but inconstancy.” 

Picking up a fragfnent of the fountain, a charming 
head of a child, modelled with exquisite art, and which 
alone would have added to Fougerais’ fame, he said, 

“ This was part of the great work which was not fit 
for your eyes.” 

“ Oh,” said Sabine, her face brightening. 

“ Now,” said the young man, opening the organ in the 
studio, “ sit down and sing.” 

“ I sing ?” she said. 

“ Yes, the O Jesu of Haydn.” 

“ Brother,” she said, throwing her arms around his 
neck, “I understand.” 

She took her place upon the stool, and, in a voice to 


THE BROKEN IDOL. 


327 


which suppressed emotion lent a new power, she began 
that song the memory of which had so haunted Benedict. 

Whilst Sabine’s voice rang out through the room, 
Benedict, under thd intelligent and affectionate care of 
Beppo, was slowly recovering consciousness. The strain 
of music seemed to exert a strange influence upon him, 
as if he wondered from what heavenly sphere came those 
sounds. Great tears rolled down his cheeks, but they 
were peaceful and painless tears; he clasped his hands, 
murmuring, “ St. Cecilia.” 

Feeble and tottering, he arose and advanced to the 
curtained arch, from which Beppo drew aside the por- 
tiere. Pale as Lazarus arisen from the dead, he leaned 
forward, looked, stood motionless, and at last cried out, 

‘‘ Sabine !” 

“ See,” cried Xavier, “ your idol broken, the saint has 
returned.” 

Sabine did not finish the hymn. The sculptor, still 
weak, seemed utterly overcome by conflicting emotions. 
But joy at length triumphed, and when he held Sabine’s 
hand he seemed to revive. 

“Will you give it to me?” he said. 

She blushed and turned away her head. 

“You must ask Sulpice,” said she. 

“ Though I have nothing now,” said Benedict, “and 
moreover those fragments of marble have ruined me.” 

Sabine looked at him and smiled. 

“ Xavier,” said she, turning to her brother, “ when are 
you to marry Louise ?” 

“ Why do you ask ?” said Xavier. 

“ Because — I thought — it seemed to me,” said she, 
“ that Sulpice might marry us both the same day.” 

Three months later, in the chapel of the factory at 
Charenton, a young priest, whose forehead was marked 
by a scar, celebrated a nuptial mass, and blessed the 


328 


IDOLS. 


union of two young couples. The workmen, in Sunday 
clothes and with joyful faces, crowded the place, and 
when the newly married came out of the chapel, two 
young girls offered them beautiful bouquets of white 
flowers. There was a general shaking of hands and 
many a moistened eye. Sulpice’s discourse on the oc- 
casion drew tears from most of his auditors, though 
few of them understood why he chose a Scripture text 
concerning idols, to whom men often sacrifice their 
souls. So well did the noble-hearted priest portray the 
sweet joys of sacrifice, the power of repentance offered 
at the foot of the cross, and the mysteries of persecution, 
martyrdom endured for justice’s sake, that all hearts 
were thrilled with emotion. 

Just as the wedding party came out of the chapel, the 
nasal voice of Pomme d’Api reached their ears. He car- 
ried under his arm a bundle of illustrated papers, and 
cried out, 

“ Buy the Dying Speech of Fleur d’Echafaud, and the 
account of his last moments. Only ten centimes, two 
sous.’' 


THE END. 





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